


Two of a Kind

by HeadintheCloudsForever



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Torture, Explicit Language, F/M, Minor Violence, Near Death, Nudity, Psychological Torture, Sex, Threats, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:40:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 53
Words: 251,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24903991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeadintheCloudsForever/pseuds/HeadintheCloudsForever
Summary: An AU where Sansa Stark is much kinder to Tyrion Lannister following their wedding, and the young woman must learn to survive in the company of Lions as she is wed to Tyrion, whom she has much in common as both are disgraced, unwanted, but when her curiosity gets the better of her and she accidentally crosses paths with Cersei, who plans to overturn Sansa to the care of the Boltons, it leads to dire consequences... Sansa must learn to adapt to her surroundings and survive before it's too late.
Relationships: Theon Greyjoy/Original Female Character(s), Tyrion Lannister/Sansa Stark
Comments: 200
Kudos: 138





	1. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters from Game of Thrones. The only character I claim full ownership of is an Original Character featured in this story. This is in no way intended for profit or gain and is purely a work of FanFiction intended for entertainment purposes.

**Sansa**

Spring, Sansa Stark deduced, especially here in King's Landing, was not at all like the seemingly eternal winters of Winterfell up North back home.

No more the bare wands of the trees that told of winter's magic. Here, in the heady heat of early May, came the green flags, the parade of spring in bright blooms as she and another companion strolled through the garden. The chorus of the skies above her head had called forth the promise of the earth and sunshine combined, and she inhaled a deep breath of fresh air, as much as her lungs would stretch and allow, and exhaled slowly.

Another deep breath to calm her nerves. And then another. A third. These next few weeks in the company of Lions, Sansa knew, would be as a developing portrait, a grand one, the developments happening slowly, and over time. The colors of the earth in these goddamned gardens deepened with the richness of the season. The rain would wash warmer over each face, a freshness to open each budding smile of the flowers.

And yet, for all its beauty, the warmth of the sun did nothing to thaw Sansa Stark's ice-cold heart, or thaw the walls of her heart, that stubborn, beating, corded muscle within the confines of her chest, that in the current moment, Sansa decided if she were to perhaps fall over and die of a complaint of the heart at the ripe young age of eighteen, well…she would not complain. Not if this was to be her plight in life, the hand she was dealt.

The Lady of Winterfell resisted the urge to crinkle her nose in disgust as she stared down at the Imp, perhaps the least imposing of the Lions among Men in this wretched cesspool of a city that dared to call itself King's Landing. Though in actuality, the look of immense disgust etched upon her pale features was not necessarily directed towards the dwarf himself, but more adequately so, at the man's lord father, Tywin, who had insisted his dwarf son marry Sansa on the morrow in the evening. A fact that she hated.

She bit the wall of her cheek as she stared down her slender little nose at the man who she was ordered to wed on the morrow, unable to decide whether or not she felt betrayed by this sudden displacement or not.

For she had previously was to wed the boy-prince, soon-to-be King Joffrey, though there was a much bigger part of her internally that felt rather relieved at having narrowly avoided such a gruesome fate, and yet…

 _By the gods and seven hells below_ , she thought angrily, all too aware that the briefest flashes of anger darted through her cobalt eyes as the eighteen-year-old watched as the heat speckled to Tyrion Lannister's cheeks and he promptly looked away. _Are the Gods to be so cruel as to leave me saddled with the Imp?_ Sansa knitted her brows together in quandary, frowning at Tyrion.

She felt her lips part open to speak, but Tyrion, having sensed the young redheaded woman's discomfort, noticed this, and his eyes alit with a gleam that Sansa Stark of Winterfell was not at all quite certain how to take in the current moment, and she wondered briefly if the Imp had seen her displeasure.

"You should learn to ignore them. These people…are naught but sheep, and are you not a lion, sire? You lions…you eat sheep, do you not? Surely, you have a list of people that you aim to kill," Sansa murmured as the pair took a leisurely stroll through the gardens, Sansa's hands neatly folded in front of her stomach as she caught the inquisitive gaze of a knight and maiden passing them by, hearing the sniggers and watching them point at Tyrion.

For the better part of a half hour, the dwarf had been murmuring names to himself under his breath, practically whispering it in low tones.

It was of Sansa Stark's belief that Tyrion had been of a mind that her future betrothed could not hear her, though Sansa had the ears of a Wolf. Sansa did not quite know what to expect at her comment, or where that had come from when the words had tumbled unchecked out of her mouth. The redhead flinched and promptly looked away and was surprised at Tyrion Lannister's remark. She heard the unmistakable sound of the man snorting through his nostrils, scoffing in gest at her attempt to be kind to him.

"Milady," he sighed, and Sansa believed the Imp to sound world weary. "People have been laughing at me far longer than they have you."

Sansa's frown deepened, a look which did not suit the Lady of Winterfell at all, for lines became etched upon her otherwise smooth forehead and a deep groove formed near the edges of her mouth, which curved her soft, pink lips downward into a frown as she stared at him.

Though she did not entirely approve of her choice of future husband, that did not necessarily mean Sansa had to dislike him, and out of all the Lannisters, there was a small part of her that favored the one walking alongside her the most, for it had been Tyrion himself who had saved her from a brutal beating in the throne room from Joffrey and his king's guard.

"You truly have such a low opinion of yourself, milord?" Sansa asked.

Her betrothed swiveled his head almost lazily to the side and was eyeing Sansa as though she had grown a pair of horns that had spouted out of her head, as if by witch's curse. He gestured towards himself and scoffed.

"Do you not _see_ what I am? I know what they call me," Tyrion remarked dryly, though Sansa could not mistake the underlying tones of bitterness in the disgruntled bookkeeper's voice. "I am the Imp. The Demon Monkey. The Dwarf. An Almost-Made. The Half Wit. Shall I continue? The list of mine that I am spouting to you on our walk is egregiously long, milady, if I do continue and tell you every single person, we should walk these cursed forsaken gardens for quite some time, I am afraid, Sansa," Tyrion snapped.

Sansa stuck out her bottom lip and bit down hard in a slight pout. She glanced down and nervously fidgeted with the gold wedding band Tyrion had bequeathed her out of an obligation and let out a haggard little sigh.

"They may call you all of those things," she murmured, lowering her voice as they passed by another set of wanderers, also aimlessly traipsing about these damned gardens, though Sansa did not know which ones were spies of the Spider in the Garden, that wretched, insufferable Lord Varys.

"And?" Tyrion prodded gently, quirking a thick dark brow Sansa's way.

" _And_ ," emphasized Sansa, attempting to not allow traces of her annoyance intermingled with her hopelessness at her predicament seep through her tone, though the young redheaded woman of Winterfell feared that was already too late, for even she could hear it within, and she cringed. "But that does not make you any less of a Lannister, Lord Tyrion. You bear the family name, your crest, the sigil, colors. All of those things. Whereas _I_ ," she commented, hating hearing the dip and crack in her voice as she briefly looked away, "I am the disgraced daughter of fallen king Ned Stark."

Sansa fell silent, flinching only once as she felt the nails of her hands dig into the skin of her palms, hard enough to pierce the supple, unblemished flesh and bleed, though she felt her ironclad grip slacken and she relaxed.

The Lady of Winterfell glanced down and sideways out of her peripherals towards Tyrion Lannister and for a moment, she was startled.

The left side of her betrothed's face, more specifically, the left side of his faint pink lip tugged upwards, creating a sinister smirk on his face, casting an eerie spell of lust to any pairs of wandering eyes that dared to look his way. "Ah, yes. The Demon Monkey and the Disgraced Princess. Just look at us," Tyrion growled irritably. "We are perfect for one another."

Sansa watched with no small measure of growing amusement in her eyes, though her face remained neutral, for she had, during her time spent in the company of Lannisters, learned how to perfect the look of passive indifference. It was perhaps her only chance at staying alive this long, really.

She watched as the Imp cast a strange, longing glance backwards towards Sansa's newest lady-in-waiting, a dark-haired beauty called Shae.

Sansa repressed the urge to roll her eyes. She had seen that look all too well in the dwarf's eyes, and in the eyes of Men as well. The look of lust.

Not love, no. Though at least, she suspected what the dwarf felt for the woman trailing behind them at a petty snail's pace was not love, but…but.

 _But_. The one thought that had been plaguing her thoughts more than most as of late. That familiar prickling feeling of doubt that pierced her skull hotter than any branding iron for cattle and sheep could ever hope to. _But_ she wondered if there was an element of Tyrion Lannister that was not so bad. Sansa furrowed her brows into a frown as she contemplated this as they continued their leisurely stroll through the damned gardens.

Sansa blinked owlishly, startled out of the inner musings of her mind as she realized that Tyrion had asked of her a question that she had missed.

"My apologies, milord," she stammered, dipping her head in acknowledgement towards Tyrion, and then her embarrassment deepened as she realized that this gesture perhaps only made things even worse. "I meant no offense. I am afraid that I was woolgathering. Please repeat that."

Tyrion scowled, though there was no mistaking the look of jest that briefly lit up the Imp's face, making the dwarf look, for just a split second, dare Sansa even think this next scandalous thought, almost… _handsome_.

The dwarf huffed in frustration, though it did not sound to Sansa as though the man were too entirely perturbed at her lack of attention.

"I _said_ ," he repeated, his annoyance seeping through his tones, "that I will do what I can to ensure you are comfortable while in King's Landing with myself and my family, but I can only do so much. I can only ask that you only venture to the places that you are permitted, such as the Red Keep or these Gardens. There are, however, certain…places that remain off limits. Have you ventured anywhere that anyone might have seen you?"

Though she did her best to ignore the piercing stares, horrified whispers from some, others shot Sansa Stark sympathetic glances as they passed, she could not help but to wonder what Tyrion Lannister really wanted of her.

If his lord father Tywin, that brute, had ever asked of him what he wanted, though, if the current look on the man's face was anything for Sansa to go off of, she highly doubted that.

Sansa's frown deepened as she gripped her fingers together and glanced downward at the man that she was to marry in little less than two days' time. She could not help but to notice how the Imp's face had hardened, compared to this morning when she had last seen him in the great hall to break their fast together, as a…family.

She gulped and shook her head to clear her mind of the repulsive thought. As kind as Tyrion was being to her, the Lannisters would never be family. Far from it. Family was Father. Mother. Arya. Robb. Rickon. Bran.

Not this den of Lions. She felt her face relax as the tension practically melted away from her shoulders as she glanced down her nose at the man.

Strangely enough as it was, she found it easier to look upon Tyrion now in his current state of disgruntlement as the man grumbled darkly to himself than before, when seated with the other company of Lannisters, when he had hardened and he had looked every bit the monstrous dwarf Sansa had heard rumors about.

The tension in the gardens began to rise, and Sansa felt herself overcome with the overwhelming urge to apologize to Tyrion.

"Milord Tyrion," started Sansa hesitantly, biting her tongue and swearing internally that she could taste the metal and iron that lingered upon her tongue, a sweet sort of bitterness, before she realized that she had bitten down hard enough on the tender appendage to draw blood.

She had to raise her voice slightly so as to capture Tyrion's attentions.

"I must apologize to you again, milord. I know our…union," here, Sansa repressed the urge to shudder at the thought of ever bedding this man, as kind as he was, "might not be what you wanted, but I would—"

Sansa let out a muffled squeak of surprise and was taken aback as the dwarf rolled his eyes, threw up his short, stubby arms in exasperation and groaned out loud, much to Sansa Stark's astonishment, before turning to regard his future bride with an immensely disappointed look upon his face.

It was almost as if he had expected better of Sansa, the corners of his mouth twisting downwards into a scowl. A look that did not suit him at all.

"Lady Stark." The title escaped from Tyrion Lannister's mouth as a low growl, and Sansa could not quell the tremor of fear that traveled down her spine as the Imp fixed Sansa with a strangely glacier-cold stare, no warmth in his eyes, and for a split moment, it was Sansa who felt incredibly small.

Though he was quite _literally_ , for lack of a better phrase, the short one here, Sansa Stark suddenly felt quite dwarfed in Tyrion Lannister's presence. "If I hear you apologize to me one more time, I swear with the gods above as my witness, that I should throttle you with my own two hands," he growled angrily, his deep and yet smooth, melodious voice sounding quite languid but irritable as well. "We both know that you and I had the choices removed from us. Were things different, then perhaps…"

Another glance behind him as he eyed the slim brunette. Shae, whose eyes were cast downward, did not lift her chin to meet the Imp's gaze.

"You did not answer my question, milady," came Tyrion's voice again, breaking Sansa's concentration as the young woman effectively tore her quizzical gaze away from her new handmaid. "Where have you ventured?"

Sansa startled, not having anticipated the dwarf's question. "The halls," she answered simply, after she had taken some time to form a reply as she cleared her throat in the process, well aware Tyrion's uncharacteristically hard gazed remained fixated upon her as the black sheep of the Lannister family awaited Sansa's answer. "T'is true, milord. I do not sleep well. I—I frequent your library from time to time, Lord Tyrion. It is truly fascinating."

Sansa inhaled a sharp breath of humid warm air that almost caused her to choke on it as she felt Tyrion pause to consider his betrothed's words.

She knew that the dwarf was a man of talent, though since his talents were not well suited to the battlefield, what he lacked in stature and the physique of normal men in Westeros, the Imp made it up for it with his mind, and Sansa knew her future husband poured himself into his books.

Scouring the pages, sometimes even reading until he became cross-eyed.

"Is that the only place?" And before Sansa could even answer, he asked a follow up question. "Our library. What do you think of it? It suits your needs? What ails your fragile little mind so oft that you venture to the library at night when you cannot sleep?" Now, Tyrion sounded curious.

By the Gods, what a question! Just the words themselves felt loaded, as if the Imp had loaded his list of questions into a crossbow and had the arrow pointed directly at Sansa's heart. Where in seven hells to start?

 _Everything_ ailed her. She would oft awake in the middle of the night, brow drenched in terror and a scream of anguish at her lips as she frequently revisited the black day of watching her father's execution.

Sansa could not remember a night last when she had slept soundly in dreamless slumber, not awaking drenched in sweat, tears running in tracts down her pale cheeks. She furrowed her brows into a frown, looking away.

"Nothing troubles me, milord. I just have trouble sleeping." Sansa heard herself speak the words through clenched teeth and rooted jaw, fully aware that she was literally lying through her teeth. But such could not be helped.

"Hmm. And reading helps?" Tyrion sounded as though he did not quite believe her, though Sansa was grateful that her future husband was seemingly choosing not to press the issue, and she felt an immense wave of gratitude overcome her chest, and a feeling that she could not quite place.

"It does. Yes. It calms me down." Sansa replied, beginning to feel a little jittery and when she glanced down at her hands, she was hardly aware she had begun the incessant, unceasing nervous habit of fidgeting with her gold wedding band again. "It distracts me, and stops me from thinking about—"

"About things you would rather not think of," Tyrion interjected, right as Sansa lifted her chin blearily to look down at the Imp in pure surprise. "It helps you to escape for a while." The dwarf allowed a dark little chuckle to escape his lips as he regarded Sansa Stark in amusement, finally having reached the arboretum, and paused, looking up at Sansa with something akin that could only be described as a newfound respect, maybe even pride.

"Y—yes," Sansa breathed, not sure why she was confessing this to Lord Tyrion. There was a long uncomfortable pause, and Sansa thought that if the tension in the arboretum would have been a visible color, then the air itself would have been scarlet.

There was so much that Tyrion Lannister would not say, and though she did not want to wed the Imp, that did not mean that she was about to continue the long line of scorn and ridicule that Tyrion had no doubt been on the receiving end for his entire life so far.

Finally, Tyrion emanated a tense, slow exhale through his nose, effectively shattering the silence after several long, excruciating minutes spent in contemplative silence. "Lady Stark. I know first and foremost, as you said to me only moments ago, that you do not want this wedding, and were that I could change my Father's mind, I would, but seeing as we cannot, I can only promise to you to make the most of our…union while it lasts, and that if you should have me, then I should like to sit by your side. As a…" Here, Tyrion's voice faltered and cracked, and Sansa was apt to believe that the dwarf had meant to say as her lord husband, but he didn't.

When he spoke again, he seemed to have found his inner resolve. "As a friend." Now, his voice was steady, and much more resolute.

Sansa blinked, startled at the man's admission. However different and unique the black sheep of the Lannister family of Lions might be, even Sansa Stark could not deny that the strange little man standing in front of her was rather endearing towards her, and she was not about to continue the scorn and the jeering that Tyrion had been subjected to his entire life.

She bit her bottom lip and regarded Tyrion in silence. As shocking as his appearance was, Sansa could sense the dwarf had no malicious intent. At least…not towards her, and Sansa felt the edges of her lips curl up into a smile, her first genuine smile since she had stepped foot into King's Landing.

"I would like that," she responded warmly, her voice a soft susurration, little more than a flutter on the warm spring breeze that wafted through the garden's arboretum, which rustled the skirts of her gown and kissed her hair and her cheeks, for a moment, reviving her shattered spirit.

Tyrion Lannister was not necessarily the 'monster' or 'Demon Monkey' that everyone made the poor sod out to be, and yet, even now, at their newly claimed status of friendship going into this forced marriage, something within the confines of Sansa's heart still harbored a twinge of caution towards Tyrion, and she reviled this part of her mind. She despised this feeling. Sansa knew it was her wariness talking from all the terrible stories and rumors she was privy to about her betrothed whilst living here.

At her words, Tyrion looked a little shocked, but less so than she had expected him to be, for Sansa could discern that the dwarf had steeled himself, for she recognized the flashing of the short man's eyes, how he had been preparing himself for Sansa to claim that the sight of him revolted her.

It did not, and it was because of her admission that a hesitant, crooked smile crossed his features and the pair sat in silence together for a while.

As friends. "We could sheep shift Lord Desmond's bed," Sansa blurted out, a mischievous playful gleam in her cobalt blue eyes. When Tyrion did not immediately respond, she blushed and elaborated. "Y—your list, milord. You cut a little hole in his mattress. Stuff sheep dung inside, sew up the hole. His entire room will stink for days, but he won't know where it's coming from," she grinned.

Lord Tyrion's face, which had previously remained impassive, quickly melted away into a twisted smirk, and he smiled. "Lady Sansa!" he exclaimed, pretending to be aghast at the young woman's suggestion, though Sansa could read it in his eyes, he was impressed with her wit.

"My sister used to do that with me when she was angry with me. And she was _always_ angry with me," Sansa sighed wistfully, looking away for a moment. When she turned back to regard Tyrion, the man had such a look of shock on his face that she snorted and immediately clamped a hand over her mouth and nose to cover it, though the sound had already escaped her and it was too late to take it back, which in turn prompted Sansa Stark of Winterfell to erupt into a giggling fit.

Her laughter was so free and pure, so childish despite the young woman's adult years. It came to Tyrion's ears as a tickle and bounce—and the only thing his rocky heart could do was join her. Her laughter was the summer rain and the birdsong too, and every time Tyrion heard it, no matter the weather, the sun itself brightened and warmed. It was as if her sound lifted a veil from our eyes and allowed the Imp to see the world more clearly.

Tyrion thought it funny how laughter can do that, those honest rumblings of the soul. Sansa had told him just the other day that she had always hated her laugh, but even now, as he heard Sansa giggling through her nose, snorting adorably, he fell a little harder for her.

Sansa continued her giggling, the sound like a brook flowing merrily through a well-lit wood. Her laugh was like a waterfall, free, flowing.

And Tyrion could not help but to laugh along with her, becoming lost in the moment of sitting with the woman to whom by the end of the morrow, he would be married to. He did not know how long they sat like this.

Though both parties it should be noted, were unaware of Tyrion's sister, Cersei, lingering behind a massive stone pillar, hanging onto their every word.

Cersei Lannister's expression was of one being forced to endure something unpleasant. Her gaze as she glowered at the pair of them was unwavering and unabashed. Those cold, calculating eyes of the fair-haired blonde Queen Regent did not travel up to Sansa Stark's face or down to her boots, but they followed her as Tyrion escorted the She-Wolf of Winterfell back towards her chambers in the Red Keep, but they followed Sansa as if really focusing on something a couple of feet further away. Perhaps Cersei's introspective nature led her to be locked in thought as she observed, it was hard for her to know for certain.

But Cersei made no gesture of recognition, no raised hand or stiff nod as her brother and the wretch passed her by.

Cersei watched as the pair quickened their pace to the corner of the gardens and melted into the crowds of couples taking leisurely strolls…

The Queen Regent furrowed her brows into a scowl. The girl was already leaving quite the impression on Tyiron, and Cersei was not at all sure that it should be allowed...


	2. Tyrion

** Tyrion **

The hot heady night shimmered with tranquility and peace, King’s Landing’s inhabitants no longer fearing the shadows for invaders and flames of Wildfire. Ease and comfort seemed to have found its way again into the villagers’ war-torn hearts and the comfort resting its gentle hands upon the commoners’ wounded flesh. Men called into battle for the King.

Most, if you were to gaze into the window of their homes or for the wealthy, their chambers, were sleeping peacefully. All but one, that is.

Despite the warmth of the day in summer, the nights in King’s Landing could get quite cold. Night had fallen fast upon the land. No more than an hour ago, the sky had been painted with hues of red, orange and pink, but all color had faded, leaving only a black canvas with no stars to be looked upon. The darkness was thick, the sky itself so low and dark, the air so chilled that it hurt to breathe. Night came like the spell of an enchantress, water to stone, earth to iron, green grass to frosted white.

There was no hint of warmth left, and it was not the chilled air nor the sound of the whistling winds that caused a young woman to lay awake.

It was not that which had roused Sansa Stark from her slumber. Her throbbing heartbeat, little more now than a throbbing mass of corded muscle, beat relentlessly in the confines of her chest, threatening escape.

She let out a whimper in her sleep and curled in on herself, her fingers clutching tightly over the blanket that Tyrion had found for her, a deep red wine blanket of the softest goose feather down. The cold of the night moved in to meet the warmth of her blood, her defense against such a chill. The young redhead could feel it wash over her skin, again and again, only to be met by the pounding of her racing heart, again and again.

Her body felt cold. Colder than the memory of ice, stone, and steel. A half formed sob found its way to Sansa’s lips, yet her tongue refused its release, and she swallowed it back, but it did not stop her from crumpling, twisting and curling further in on herself in her bed, burrowing underneath the blanket, praying to the Gods and anyone above that would listen to her feeble pleas for release from this sorrow and torment.

Weeks had passed now since that fateful day that the Imp had rescued her from Prince Joffrey’s clutches, and yet, the images and screams of the day the vicious boy-prince had ordered the execution of her lord father had still not relinquished its hold upon her mind, nor had the tormenting memory of staring Death in the face in the form of a loaded crossbow, pointed right between her eyes, fled from Sansa Stark’s thoughts, either.

Most nights were always the same for the tormented young girl, the events of the day of her Father’s death always playing out the same, that blood-soaked dawn watching from the front steps, each moment accounted for and every scream, cry of anguish, and word recalled in crystal clear clarity, and this only made Sansa hate Joffrey even more.

Following Father’s death, her life only worsened. Arya was missing, presumed dead, and here she was, a Wolf in the Lion’s den, outnumbered.

These evenings when this happened for the young redhead were almost unbearable, though she would not oft wake, though she tried to.

The nights that she could not stand the most, however, were the ones like tonight in which the memories of these two days that haunted her the most changed, becoming warped and false in the confines of her mind.

Failing to reach her father in time. Pleading with Prince Joffrey not to do this, clenching her eyes violently shut as she felt the sharp pelt and sting of his King’s Guard’s open-handed smack across her face in the middle of the throne room, finding herself just short of being ravaged.

Then, that golden-haired little demon, that boy-king, would come for her, and then this prince of a Lion would smile at Lady Sansa. His smile was cold and did not reach his cobalt blue eyes. His smile was wicked, devoid of warmth, and his eyes, oh, his eyes! They glinted of Death.

And then…the golden-haired demon with locks that could rival that of the sun’s rays itself would come for Sansa, taking the dagger from his guard’s hands, and plunging the weapon deep into Sansa’s chest.

Prince Joffrey would twist the blade in his hands, all the while sinking it deeper and deeper into Sansa’s chest in her nightmares. Her skin would tear to shreds as the knife rotated, the sound of her muscles and nerves being gouged growing even louder. Sansa’s screams rang in her ears.

Then, without warning, Joffrey Baratheon jerked the knife all the way back, until the shiny metal had disappeared inside her and the jeweled handle adorned with the finest gold coat and adorned with rubies was pushing against Sansa’s broken skin. Her cry was a brilliant sound, guttural chokes mixed with an agonized scream, hot tears pouring down her face. He would smirk at her and pull the blade out of his now deathly white victim. Sansa sank to her knees, continuing to scream, convulsing, and trembling like a rabid animal, thick blood, crimson, garish and sticky redness flowing freely from the gaping hole in her back. The cascade of the disgraced Stark girl’s life force gushed out in all directions, scarlet liquid squirting upwards and painting Prince Joffrey’s pale face red.

Then he would turn away from her as her pleas for mercy grew quieter, the sweet tang of blood lingering in Sansa’s nostrils, on her tongue, settling there like iron, bitter poison, and she would scream.

It was these nights that were the worst, when Sansa Stark would wake, freezing cold, beads of sweat upon her delicate brow, and drenched with a fevered mind, skin hot despite the chill of the air, and a scream at her lips.

The night before her wedding to Tyrion Lannister was one of these nights, and Sansa lay in wake, though she did not dare open her eyes, knowing full well that she would find no safety in the sanctity of her dreams, or more accurately described, her nightmares, for that was what this was, though Sansa knew that even in the daylight, she was beginning to have difficulty discerning the truth of reality from that of her dreams.

A soft, mewling whimper that was more of a half-choked sob willfully set free from its confines of her chest, though Sansa could not bear herself to open her eyes. Not when the likes of that silver-haired demon, Tywin, lay in wait to mock her and Tyrion as soon as dawn crept over the horizon at its petty pace on the morn of their wedding ceremony. Not when the scent of coppery, tangy blood still lingered in her nostrils from witnessing Prince Joffrey’s king’s guard, Ser Illyn Payne, lift Ned Stark’s severed head from the rest of his person, and her eardrums buzzed incessantly, ringing out with the cries of her screams and the people’s protests at Prince Joffrey’s sentence.

A scream tore from her lips and Sansa let out another pitiful whimper and buried her face deep into the smothering silk fabric of her plump pillow. She sought that sweet, precious sanctuary which would not come for her nor whisper its soothing remarks into the shell of her ear until the dawn of a new day, and in some ways, a new beginning, rose with the sun. If Sansa Stark did happen to remove her face from her pillow and if she were to open her eyes and sit up in her bed, she would be surprised to discover the shape of a black shadow silently watching her troubled sleep.

A shape in the form of a dwarf…

* * *

Burning through yet another decanter of red Dornish wine, Tyrion Lannister fell in love with the sweet sound of silence as he silently crept away from the Stark girl’s chambers, brow furrowed in a frown.

He had not intruded to intrude upon the girl’s slumber in this manner, though in his absent wandering of the hallways of the Red Keep in the witching hour, when all its other inhabitants lay asleep in their bed, he had heard a sound, a sound that he had become all too familiar with, sadly.

Tyrion had crept as stealthily as he could into her bedchambers, careful not to make any noise which would disturb Lady Sansa, though as the soft rays of moonlight had spilled into the room through the open terrace doors that led out to the small balcony to a view which overlooked most of the entirety of King’s Landing, he found Sansa’s bed.

The blankets were tossed in disarray. She had been thrashing in her sleep, thrown about her figure in almost harsh, violent twisting’s. Her auburn curls were splayed out on either side of her face like a fan, and her hands were curled tightly around whatever bedsheets she could reach.

Tears streamed in graceful tracts down her pale cheeks, down the slope of her temple. Sansa Stark’s color was ashen, pallid, rendering her features to that of a corpse’s, the healthy pink glow in her cheeks absent.

The skin of her delicate brows was pulled taut across her browbone in her disturbed sleep, and Tyrion bit the wall of his cheek in hesitation.

_Should I wake her?_ His frown deepened as he recollected the Stark girl’s words to her in the gardens underneath the arboretum this evening.

How she did not sleep, and what little sleep she did succumb to, much like him, was plagued by nightmares. Of memories of days past that she would soon rather forget. Tyrion himself was all too familiar with this.

Just as Tyrion felt his short, stubby arm outreach, motioning towards one of her twisted pile of crumpled sheets, that which he had intended to pull back just slightly and prod her gently until the Stark woman awoke, the Imp caught sight of his reflection in a short mirror hung across the way, and he froze when he saw his twisted reflection in the shard of glass.

His arm fell limp at his sides and his knuckles turned white as he curled his hands into fists with the effort to steady himself, grinding his teeth in anger, feeling his jaw tense, and locking up in self-revulsion.

Tyrion could not help but to stare at his reflection. Or more specifically, his face. A long jagged scar snaked down diagonally across his face, beginning at the left edge of his forehead and snaking its way across his face, ending at the edge of his lip, which caused it to curl downwards and oft times, more often than not, gave his features a truly twisted, grotesque appearance, which did not help to quell the rumors that swirled throughout the Red Keep and the rest of King’s Landing regarding his ‘monstrous’ appearance, which only added salt to the already tender wound in his heart. Tyrion clenched his jaw even tighter.

It was an odd-looking, unusual scar, an odd mixture of bright white and light pink. The skin around the scar itself was also slightly discolored, suggesting that it had never healed properly. Tyrion slowly unclenched one of his hands and raised it to his face, lightly brushing the pads of his fingertips down the scar, tracing the jagged line slowly with the tips of his stubby, rounded fingers. It had been months since he’d gotten the damned thing, but Tyrion was still unable to look at it for longer than a minute.

He hung his head, shame washing over him as he stood desolate in the dimly lit bedchambers of the woman he was to marry in but a few short hours. Even after all this time, its pink and white shininess was shocking.

To others who dared to ask the Imp about it, Tyrion would describe the scar as his teacher. He said it taught him not to get caught the next time.

It taught him to run faster (or at least, as fast as his short, little bowlegs would allow!) and to always carry a spare dagger. Or maybe even an axe.

Tyrion called it his badge of shame for his failures, but one day, the scar would look old as he aged, and the dwarf secretly hoped that he would proudly wear it as a badge of pride instead, an old battle wound from the daring days of his youth when he was younger, in his prime.

He felt his lips curl downward into a twisted sneer as he turned away, deciding at last not to wake Sansa, for who knows what commotion would ensue if the young woman found the ‘Almost Made’ in her room at night.

_By the Gods and Seven Hells below, I would be lucky if Sansa did not throw something at me in anger_ , Tyrion thought bitterly as he glanced sideways towards her open balcony terrace door, and thought the balcony a more sufficient place to mull over his late night thoughts at this hour.

Though the girl gave another noise, and it rendered the dwarf rooted to his spot, as he cast a wary glance backward over his shoulder at her form.

Sansa Stark’s breaths hitched in uneven, short intervals, sending tremors wracking through her slender, yet sorrowful frame.

Strange little feeble mewling’s and pleads of fear, outrage, and denial tumbled unchecked from her lips, and her eyes flung open and Tyrion took a step back as Sansa Stark flinched away violently so, and a shriek of surprised alarm left her lips as she bolted upright in her massive bed.

For a moment, Sansa simply sat there, blanket clutched tightly to her breast to preserve her modest, and Tyrion quickly came to the realization that she was in naught but a very thin shift that he could _almost_ see through. He felt the heat creep to his cheeks as he promptly turned away.

Both to preserve his bride’s modesty, as well as to save himself the embarrassment of Lady Stark discovering his nervousness at this whole situation which had, quite frankly, become rather awkward for him.

“You were dreaming, milady,” he offered quietly, forcing his gaze to remain fixated at a candelabra on a small wooden side table near her bed, as if it were the most fascinating thing in all of the Seven Kingdoms.

Tyrion knew that he had no right to see Sansa in such a way like this.

“Forgive me.” He turned back to Sansa, and, while still averting his gaze, instead keeping his gaze now trained upon his boots and the floor, offered her an awkward little half-bow, and turned away. “I should not have woken you. I apologize for disturbing your sleep. I will leave you.”

Tyrion’s frown deepened as he inched his way out towards the balcony, one hand on the wall to steady himself, for he was still quite drunk. Dornish Wine was the only thing that staved off the emotional blow and the pains dealt to him by Father over his constant failures of bringing shame and embarrassment upon the Lannister family name.

He did not dare look back, for he did not wish to see the shock and surprise that he believed would be evident upon Lady Sansa’s face if he were in fact, to look. Tyrion knew all too well what he was. “A monster.”

As he stumbled out towards the balcony terrace, he could feel the ground beneath his feet rocking and his hazy mind drifting in and out like the tides of the sea. Though his vision wavered, there was one thing that Tyrion knew he could be certain of. She was there, behind him, for the Imp could feel Lady Sansa’s piercing stare at the back of his skull. He felt the heat return to his cheeks as he refused to acknowledge her presence as his bride joined him on the terrace in silence, now adorned in a lavish white silk robe, arms wrapped around her middle from the cold.

Tyrion pretended to be interested in the architecture of the Red Keep. The castle walls of the Red Keep were the strongest thing around for miles, yet if you were to look carefully, you would notice the stones. It was built of stones of varying shapes and sizes, each one unique. From a distance, it was a uniform grey, but from up close, it was a humble mosaic of different rocks, each of them nobody would think anything of if they were left alone by a dirt roadside path. But together, they made a castle, the crown of the landscape and protector of the ancient peoples of King’s Landing. Inside the Red Keep, or more specifically, out on the balcony’s terrace that evening, stood a forlorn, lonesome man. The Imp himself.

The air was chilled as summer leaves softly road the bitter breeze that wafted to Tyrion Lannister’s nostrils, carrying with it the faint scent of a heady rainfall. The inhabitants of King’s Landing rested peacefully through the late night. Not a single voice or sound was heard aside from the swaying creaks of the tall dark oak trees that lined the villages that bordered King’s Landing’s Red Keep. The Grande structure was framed by the black and dark blue hues of the budding late night sky. The scent of rain was growing stronger, and the growing black and purple thunder clouds in the distance only confirmed the dwarf’s suspicions of rain later.

He was quite certain that no soul was awake, save for him, though that had not stopped him from occasionally casting a wary glance throughout the hallways when he had ventured out onto the terrace for some fresh air, hoping to catch any sight of _her_. Of Sansa Stark. The Key to the North.

Tyrion furrowed his dark brows into a deep frown and felt the corners of his mouth move downwards into a truly twisted smirk that was more of a grimace, though he did not bother to stop it from happening. His bride.

Try as he might, the Imp simply could not get this ghastly image out of his mind. Her face. Of how she had looked at him in the gardens earlier.

How at first, there had been revulsion and fear of the highest order etched upon her delicate features, and then, the more Tyrion opened up to her, how something within Lady Sansa Stark had seemed to shift and give way, and how her cobalt blue eyes had softened, and she had laughed.

Not at him, but with him. They had…they had laughed together.

It was strange. Remarkable, really, though it did not stop the fear of doubt pricking at his heart and sending waves of cold washing over his body. He wondered why the Gods and the Light of the Seven had forsaken him so, and wondered for a moment, if wedding the Stark girl, this last She-Wolf of Winterfell, was Father’s sick idea of a joke to mock Tyrion. To marry a woman who clearly despised and reviled him as some sort of monster, a demon in the night that lurked in the shadows.

The dwarf wouldn’t put it past the bastard, for when had Tywin ever shown his son an ounce of kindness? _Never, that’s when_ , he thought.

In a groggy stupor that no amount of copious red Dornish wine could quell, the Imp had found his way out onto the balcony terrace, as he often did when he could not sleep. His slightly misshapen face was illuminated by the luscious moonlight. Tyrion’s frown deepened as he lifted his hand and allowed the pads of his fingertips to ghost over the grisly facial scar, a battle wound he had been left with which served as a permanent reminder of the Battle of the Blackwater. He blinked, startled, as Sansa’s sweet voice startled him out of his dark, swirling thoughts that swirled around in his tired head. The Hand of the King was quite certain that he had not received a full night’s rest in months, for deep purple bags clung underneath his eyes to his skin relentlessly, his curled hair often a tangled mess of curls, his face pale. “Thank you.”

Just two words, but the weighted gratitude of those two single words strung together in just one sentence was enough to lift the Imp from his groggy stupor, and he turned and blearily tried to focus his gaze a few feet in front of himself to regard his redheaded young bride.

“For what?” he stammered, visibly cringing as he heard that his speech was slightly slurred. These days, Tyrion never had a sober day if he could help it. He did everything drunk. The wine was the only thing that lowered the volume of his dark thoughts.

It brought back a few selective memories of good times now long past, and he let himself dwell in them rather than think. And in this moment, here with Sansa, he was here and not, existing in two perfect moments, though admittedly, how he would have chosen to be in this spot with Sansa, was not how he would have done it. Sansa Stark was always quite the beauty, even a stupid fool could see that, and Tyrion was no stupid fool, he. But seeing her up close and personal like this only reinforced that truth. She was of fair complexion, her hair, long wisps of auburn-ginger streaked with highlights of umber that always seemed to gleam whenever they captured the light of the sun or the moon just right.

She had a kind of understated beauty, perhaps it was because she was so disarmingly unaware of her prettiness. Her pale skin was completely flawless. She was all about simplicity, making things easy, helping those around her to relax and be happy with what they have. Perhaps that is why her skin glowed so, it was her inner beauty that lit her eyes and softened her features. When she smiled and laughed you couldn't help but smile along too, even if it were just on the inside.

To be in her company was to feel that you too were someone, that you had been warmed in summer rays regardless of the season.

“For…” Sansa looked away for a moment, seemingly struggling to find the right words. “For waking me up,” she said at last, still averting her gaze as she painfully twisted her fingers together, and Tyrion noticed that she cast a strange look towards the gold wedding ring on her finger.

How her voice had almost a strange melancholic tinge to her tones, as though while she did not necessarily approve of Tywin forcing the two of them to marry, Tyrion could tell that Sansa Stark of Winterfell was not like the rest of the women in King’s Landing. She would not mock him.

Tyrion dipped his head in acknowledgment. It seemed to take the dwarf ages to find his voice. “You’re welcome, Lady Sansa. Besides, on a night like this,” he added wistfully, gesturing back towards the front of the balcony and out towards the peaceful, sleeping city of King’s Landing, “who could _possibly_ sleep when we are to be wedded on the morrow?” The Imp shot her a coy grin that in the half light of the moon gave his already twisted features a truly grotesque appearance, though much to Tyrion’s surprise, Sansa Stark did not crinkle her nose in disgust, nor did she avert her gaze and disappear back into the safety of her room.

No. She did neither of those things. Instead, her cobalt blue eyes softened and lit her features, and something truly incredible happened.

She smiled back. It was a small smile, and seemed albeit forced, but for Tyrion, that was more than enough. Just enough to know that Stark did not entirely despise him, for who he was. Or rather, _what_ Tyrion was.

Still, there was something about that smile that prompted the dwarf to ask of Lady Sansa a question. A question, he was admittedly not sure he wanted the answer to. But given that it burned on the edge of his tongue, or maybe that was the last remnants of the bottle of Dornish wine he’d drank, he could not recall, he heard himself ask the question before he could stop himself.

“Our…union,” he began hesitantly. “Father has demanded it of me as my sworn duty to do right by our house, but…what is it that _you_ want? Why would you agree to this match?” He could not help but to wonder.

Sansa blinked owlishly at the dwarf, her blue eyes widening in shock and awe. Clearly, Stark had not anticipated being asked such a query.

He watched as her brows knitted together in quandary, and suddenly, Tyrion found himself fearful of her answer, and immediately cursed himself. What right had him to call himself a true Lion born if he grew flustered and nervous over a single woman’s answer to a simple question?

Tyrion flinched as Sansa Stark reached out a hand and settled it gently upon his small shoulder. “Because….” Her voice sounded soft, hesitant, though when she spoke again, the Imp could tell she was seeking to find her resolve, “it is what is best, and…” Again, Sansa’s voice trailed off.

It seemed to take the girl ages to find her voice again, and for a moment, Tyrion had thought the power of speech had permanently fled her. But then she spoke again, and Sansa’s voice was harder, firmer.

More resolute. Tyrion bit the inside of his cheek and waited for Sansa to continue. He could not explain the sudden, desperate need to hear of her answer, but here they were, both haunted, sleep-deprived, troubled souls.

“Because I tire of the way the world treats someone like you and I,” she answered softly, after a long silence that felt to Tyrion like it lasted an eternity. “And if this is but the only way to ease the weighted burden that people like you and I carry on our shoulders then I will. For…the North.”

Tyrion stared at her incredulously, hardly daring to believe her words.

If there was ever a moment where he had given thought to wishing to kiss her, _truly_ kiss her, it was now, not currently giving a goddamn what Shae were to think of this. An incredible fiery heat flooded his limbs and engulfed his heart. How such a celestial creature like this could exist, the dwarf could not even begin to fathom such an intangible concept. And yet, his courage failed him in the end, and Tyrion did not bother to hide his content sigh as it escaped his lips as Sansa kept her hand upon his shoulder. The skin of her palm was warm against his own, nice.

Tyrion barely stifled his satisfied smirk as Sansa attempted to repress a huge yawn with the back of her hand, and he recognized that their moment had, unfortunately, come to an end. “You should sleep, Lady Sansa. May you have no more dreams tonight, and on the morrow…”

“We wed,” Sansa Stark finished that thought for him, though the Imp could detect no malice in the girl’s tone. No hint of disgust or deceit.

Tyrion shot her a little lopsided smile that took her a moment to return, though when Stark finally gave the Imp a smile that was so genuinely sweet with just the right touch of shyness, that it sent an unexpected swell of warmth through Tyrion’s Lannisters veins, setting his blood ablaze as he politely excused himself, retreating from Lady Sansa’s bedchambers.

As Tyrion sauntered down the otherwise deserted hallways of the Red Keep, he could not shake the feeling of her hand resting on his shoulder.

As if to be close to him was where Sansa Stark had belonged all along. He stifled a groan as he heaved himself up onto his bed, determined to get at least a few hours of quality sleep before being woken by Podrick.

Tyrion rolled over on his side, allowing his eyes to close as he fell asleep with the ghost of a smile still etched upon his handsome face.

He allowed himself to fall into a dreamless sleep, his first in ages as he had the memory of Sansa’s hand upon his shoulder, where she had kept it there without a trace of fear, and the soothing, melodious tones of her voice to call upon.


	3. Margaery

**Margaery**

Margaery Tyrell could not help but to feel a strange pang that tugged at her heartstrings as she looked upon the miserable expression, this strange material of beauty which was Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, about to be wed to Tyrion Lannister, that Imp, far from the worst Lannister she could have been wed to.

It was an hour prior to the wedding ceremony, and Margaery did not know if she had ever seen another young woman as nervous as Sansa Stark, fully adorned in her wedding attire. The Stark girl's lady-in-waiting, a pretty enough dark-haired woman with ebony locks who introduced herself as Shae had gotten up with Lady Sansa early this morning to ensure she was ready.

Sansa Stark's wedding gown was made of richly patterned brocade and delicate voilé in ivory, combined with silver-colored bristles and embellishments. The dress was emphasized by the fine scar and the wide sleeves of the garment. A satin ribbon lacing at the back served as adorning detail and served to regulate the width of the dress. The silver belt around her waist brought attention to Lady Sansa's flattering figure, emphasizing her womanhood at eighteen.

No longer a foolish girl of six and ten was she. Lady Sansa's wedding dress is emphasized by the fine scarf and the wide sleeves. A satin ribbon lacing at the back is adorning detail and serves to regulate the width of the dress. The belt emphasized Sansa's slender waist and was adjustable in width.

The young brunette let out a content sigh as a gentle breeze wafted through the arboretum of King's Landing, temporarily cooling the air, and providing relief. The gardens were a glorious expanse of flowers: tall water mint with pale lilac flowers, petite fragrant daisies, lilies, and roses.

With a content little sigh, Margaery rested her chin in her hand, wishing with all her might that she could just…stay in these gardens, if she could not return home to Highgarden, then she should like to stay in the place where she felt she could breathe.

In awe, Margaery turned around and saw little pink butterflies lazily flitting around the luscious green of the shrubbery and dipping their little tiny legs into the water of the fountain. The sky the morning of Sansa Stark and Tyrion Lannister's union was a deep blue, and an occasional cloud would bounce across the heavens like a dancing sheep. Letting another sigh escape the confines of her lips, Margaery stared wistfully upwards as the sun basked her pale face in its yellow rays of glory, warming her skin. The air was perfumed by the heavy scent of lilies.

Their white petals were striking against the backdrop of this gorgeous summer early evening as the sun began to dip beyond the horizon slowly but surely, simply beautiful. On closer inspection, Margaery could see that their stamens had been removed. Reaching out a hand to the delicate snowy petals, the young Tyrell woman knew that this would be the last time she could enjoy this flower.

After today, it would forever remind her of the days ahead when everything would change. Margaery gave her head the tiniest of shakes and prevented a light little chuckle from escaping her lips as she could not help but to notice Sansa Stark's incessant fidgeting with the gold wedding band on her finger, blue eyes cast downward in a melancholic way. It was no secret amongst those here in King's Landing that the girl was not at all looking forward to wedding Tyrion Lannister in little less than an hour, but…

The Imp was not the worst of the Lannister Lions a girl could be wed to, and the prize flower of High Garden tried to emphasize as such, thinking that Tyrion Lannister was rather handsome and good-looking, even with the grotesque scar on his face— _especially_ with the scar, though whether her words would reach Lady Sansa's ears however, was another matter entirely, but still. Margaery had to try to make her see.

She exhaled a shaking breath through her nose as she finished helping Sansa put the final touches on her hair, weaving intricate purple and light blue flowers through Lady Stark's waterfall braid, the rest of her auburn red hair following in loose curls down to her shoulders, and taking a step back to admire her handiwork.

Normally, this would have been a job for the girl's handmaiden, Shae, Margaery thinks her name is, but Lady Tyrell could sense that the Stark girl was troubled, and she rather liked Sansa, as did her grandmother, Lady Olenna, as they had listened to Sansa's tale the other day of the true nature and personality of Joffrey Baratheon, to whom Margaery was due to be wed, and Margaery wished to speak to Lady Sansa alone.

Sansa Stark had been frank in her admission to Lady Olenna and Margaery over a small pile of lemon cakes and cheese and copious glass after glass of red Dornish wine, in regards to Joffrey and his mannerisms, going into graphic detail of the boy's wretched behavior on the day he ordered traitor Ned Stark's head to be removed from his body.

Margaery's head practically whiplashed upwards as she glanced towards the left, where Sansa Stark stood pensively, looking out at the gardens and towards the fountain. She was mumbling something under her breaths in low tones, much too low for Margaery to make out, causing Margaery Tyrell to knit her brows together in quandary. "What ails you, sweet girl?" Margaery spoke up, finally unable to remain silent any longer. "For this is to be the happiest day of your life, is it not? A girl's wedding day…"

A snort from Sansa caused Margaery at first to assume the younger girl was on the verge of breaking into tears, though when the girl turned to regard the prize flower of Highgarden, there was a look of amusement etched upon her pretty features, though there was no mistaking the gleaming of unshed tears that threatened to cascade down her pale cheeks in graceful tracts. "I—it's not funny, b—but i-if it is not funny to me, th—then why am I laughing? I—I shouldn't be laughing," she managed to gasp out, wiping a stray tear from her eyes, and Margaery's eyes were inexplicably drawn to Sansa Stark's nails.

Sansa noticed Margaery looking and quickly tried to hide her nails under the overly long sleeves of her luscious wedding gown, but it was too late. Her nails were long, almost like claws, and Margery wondered if the Stark girl kept them like this on purpose as her only means of defense in terms of warding off unwanted advances from undesirable men.

The lines on Sansa's hands caught Margaery's attention. They swirled on the skin of her palm like an unfinished drawing. Sansa's fingers were bone white and soft, though cold to the touch as Margaery reached out what she hoped was a reassuring hand and curled her fingers over top Sansa's and gave the Stark girl a light, reassuring little squeeze. Margaery's frown deepened. "What is? Y—your wedding day? I—I am afraid that I do not understand, Sansa," she stammered, feeling an incredible heat creep to her cheeks.

"Yes." Sansa's voice was clipped and hard.

"I want very much for you to be happy, Lady Sansa. As does our grandmother. Women in our position must make the best of our circumstances in this life, do we not?"

The bride turned to regard Margaery Tyrell with a look of confusion as her brows knitted together and she glanced down at her wedding gown and toyed with the wedding ring she had removed from her palm and was fidgeting with the little gold thing, and Margaery was briefly tempted to take the ring from Sansa Stark and hold onto it for the girl until the ceremony commenced, just in case Sansa was of a mind to throw the little ring into the sea and let the waves permanently carry it away, so that a fish would eat it.

But the girl did neither of those things. The moment Sansa had caught wind of the fact that Margaery had seen her looking at the way she incessantly fidgeted with the piece of jewelry, she curled her fingers into a tight fist of her wedding ring and became still.

Sansa knitted her brows together in quandary and looked away for a moment, out at the fountain and across that towards the sea, a strange look of longing on her face, in her eyes. "My situation is…uniquely different as are that of my circumstances, Lady Tyrell. I had dreams once. Foolish ones, that I would marry a lord or a great prince one day or. Or a knight like Loras," she sighed wistfully, and Margaery bit the inside wall of her cheek.

Sansa Stark had such a contented little inflection in her voice whenever she spoke of Margaery's brother in this way, and Margaery briefly wondered if she should inform the young woman of her brother's fondness for being what her grandmother liked to call 'a sword swallower,' her polite way of saying Loras preferred cock over pussy, and…to shatter Sansa's vison of her beloved brother on her wedding day would bode ill, Margaery decided, and she decided against speaking up.

She felt the beginning tugging's of a smile and she hastily clamped a hand over her mouth and disguised her laughter into that of a poorly disguised cough, a look which earned her a look of confusion from Sansa Stark.

No. She could not. For it would surely shatter the poor girl's dreams of a better life and future for herself on a day that she was already admittedly feeling horrible. Margaery swallowed and blinked, forcing her attentions to return to whatever Sansa was saying.

"…And here I am, on what is supposed to be the happiest day of my life, wed to him…." The note of bitterness in Sansa's tone was unmistakable, though Margaery suspected that it was not to do as much with the fact that she was wedding a man to whom she did not seem to love, though Margaery suspected that, in Sansa's own way, perhaps she cared for Tyrion, liked him at least a little bit, for she had not vehemently protested the match when the news was delivered to her and Tyrion by none other than Tywin Lannister that the match was arranged.

No. It was something else that was raging a war within the confines of her mind, though what that thing or those things were, only Sansa knew.

"You do not want him, then?" Margaery could not help but to ask, clutching onto her arm and realizing that they needed to head back towards the Red Keep, for the ceremony was due to commence soon. Her grip upon Sansa's arm tightened and she steered the younger girl towards the castle, recognizing that Lady Stark's posture had stiffened the closer they got towards the gates.

"N—no. Yes, I—I don't…th—this is all happening so quickly, I—I think," Sansa stammered, an incredible heat creeping onto her cheeks in a petty pace, as she glanced at Margaery out of the corner of her eyes. "Were that I could, I would have married another, b—but…if this is to be my plight in life, then it is my burden to bear, if it means regaining control over the North one day. It might be my only chance to see Winterfell again soon."

"But you do not want him?" Margaery repeated, wanting to get to the root of whatever ailed Sansa's mind. Margaery shook her head, sending a silent prayer to the gods and the Light of the Seven above that Sansa would take better care of her words uttered here, for here even in the gardens, spiders in the garden like Lord Varys or Lord Baelish hid in the shadows and behind the shrubbery, always listening in to what otherwise were private conversations. The Stark girl may be a pretty little budding rose, clever and intelligent, but that would not do her any good in her new situation, for she was about to be the wife of a Lannister. Sansa would have to be clever, but in a different kind of way.

Unfortunately, Margaery was beginning to think that Sansa did not have the capacity to do so. She blinked in surprise when the bride turned and regarded the older woman who had become something of a friend to her and promptly answered Margaery.

"I…" She bit her bottom lip, sticking it out in a slight pout and turning away. "Yes, b—but…he is a _dwarf_ , I have never…never had the experience of…pleasure," she emphasized, her cheeks reddening maddeningly and Margaery could not help but to notice Sansa Stark sounded more intrigued by the notion of marrying someone several feet shorter than her, and it did not escaped Margaery's attentions that it was with no small feat she uttered the word 'dwarf,' and it was clear that she despised such a term for the former Hand of the King.

Margaery felt herself blink, momentarily surprised by this new revelation of Sansa Stark. No doubt the girl was wondering how he would perform for her tonight, given their immense height difference, and Margery chuckled. _Perhaps there is more to you yet, Sansa Stark_ , she thought admirably. She waited for Sansa to speak again.

"I never would have expected were you to ask me a few years ago that my life would come to _this_ ," Sansa sighed, glancing down at her wedding gown and toying with her ring.

"Has Lord Tyrion mistreated you during your weeks of engagement to one another?" Margaery asked solemnly. She had a feeling she could already guess the answer.

"No." Sansa's answer was immediate and left her lips without any semblance of hesitation, though her cobalt blue eyes were wide and round with astonishment, and awe.

"Has your future lord husband been kind to you?" Margaery pressed. When Sansa mutely nodded, confirming Margaery's suspicions, she felt her frown deepen in confusion. "Then you will have to correct me, for I am afraid that I fail to see the issue?"

"He's a—a _Lannister_." The words escaped Sansa's lips in a hushed whisper, as though she were afraid to confess her revulsion for that family of golden-haired Lions.

Though Margaery could not blame the girl. Prince Joffrey at the time did order the traitor Ned Stark to be executed, and, if the rumors were true, forced Sansa to look upon his decapitated head days after the poor sod's execution. She had every right to hate them all.

"But he is far from the _worst_ Lannister, Sansa, would you not agree with me? If anything, I daresay he might be one of the best in this family den of Lions." Margaery knew the moment the words left her mouth that her words had hit their mark, for she was surprised as Tyrion's bride's face paled even more than it already was, what little color was left in her cheeks drained, and Sansa's beautiful face was rendered ashen and sickly, and the Stark girl nervously began to intertwine her fingers together in anticipation.

"Aye, but gods! I—I am sorry, milady Margaery," she murmured, a light pink blush speckling along her cheeks. "I—I did not mean to insinuate th—that I have it worse than you…here I am, confiding to you about my worrying over my wedding night and you—"

Margaery chuckled and shook her head slightly, hoping to communicate that Sansa's words had no ill effect. "It is all right, Sansa. We both know that King Joffrey is…monstrous," she admitted, surprised to hear herself confess her grandmother's words.

Margaery Tyrell bit the inside of her cheek and felt her brows furrow into a frown as she thought of her upcoming wedding to the king, and how she would then be the _Queen_. King Joffrey Baratheon was nothing more than a boy-king who feared his subjects. He was of the firm belief that the revolting peasants of King's Landing would soon revolt if they were not given more to worry over.

Yet one thing to worry over would never do, never really be effective enough, they needed many, in his mind. And so, the king made it the fashion for them to be thinner that was natural, so that their own bodies would be their enemy day and night. King Joffrey saw to it the poorer peasants were driven from their homes in the countryside to compete in the citadel for the most basic of wages and sustenance. Something admittedly that Margaery could see displeased the other men.

Tywin, Tyrion, seven hells, even the boy's mother, Cersei, was unhappy with the developments surrounding Joffrey's crowning ceremony, but the boy lacked a firm hand.

Margaery knew that people like Joffrey Baratheon were complex and difficult to hand, that some people were born inherently good, people like Sansa Stark standing right next to her, still seeming as though an inner battle was being fought in the confines of her mind. Some people were born bad and became good through a great deal of effort on their part. Others were born into light and fell to the darkness. And others, Margaery knew, were born in darkness and could not see the light. This was the case for King Joffrey.

Try as she might to believe otherwise, Margaery Tyrell knew that every single being on this earth and in all Seven Kingdoms fit into one of those categories. Which one was he? Was he good or bad? Light or dark? An angel? A demon? What was King Joffrey?

Margaery knew what Joffrey was. The life ahead of King's Landing's King was one of anger, pain, and hatred. Of Darkness. She wondered if Joffrey even wanted that for himself, and then she realized she was being a fool and rolled her eyes to herself in disgust. Of course, he did. Joffrey Baratheon grew up surrounded in a lion's den by fire and ash and poison and death. It was the only thing the boy-king knew, and so of course he wanted it. He was never taught what love was. What kindness or sympathy or empathy was. In fact, it would not have surprised Margaery to learn that all throughout his entire childhood, Joffrey saw just one type of smile from each of his Lannister family members.

A smile full of malice and cruel intent as the Lannisters played their little games, concocted their schemes, and sent their regards. It was all the boy-king knew. King Joffrey was trained to be the perfect wretched little killer. Battle axes, daggers, swords, maces, though his favorite was his damned bow and arrow. Put a weapon in the boy's hand and chances were, Joffrey Baratheon would use it to bludgeon you to death and he would not as much as blink an eyelid after the whole messy ordeal was over and done with. It was almost as though he were both his adult self and childish self simultaneously. As if he never fully managed to grow up, part of him left behind in childhood forever, possibly because his emotions, so tightly reined, in, could never manage to grow or mature.

Joffrey simply did not possess that capability. And Margaery was _marrying_ this boy.

Her future King, future father of any children he might sire with her, was inherently evil. She knew this, but… for that matter, what was Sansa Stark? Not that it truly mattered to Margaery, though she knew she liked Sansa Stark and enjoyed her company, and only wished to see the girl live a happy life.

Margaery cast another glance at Lady Sansa, still glancing wistfully down at the little gold ring she held almost tenderly in her palm, shifting the ring in between her hands, feeling its weight, one of her fingertips tracing the piece of jewelry. Plain yellow gold in design with no engravings or carvings, upon first glance, it was quite plain, though Margaery believed it to be perfect for Sansa Stark.

Sansa held her breath and emanated a tense, slightly shaking exhale through her nose. The young redhead blinked as she quickly realized Margaery asked of her a question that she had somehow missed in her musings over her wedding to Lord Tyrion Lannister.

"M—my apologies," Sansa stammered, her blush deepening. "I—I was not listening."

Again, Margaery smiled and her grip upon Sansa's arm tightened as she led the Stark girl towards the Great Sept of Baelor, and she could feel Sansa's body stiffen.

"It matters not." Margaery smiled warmly and let out a little sigh. "I was merely saying that I heard Lord Tyrion can be quite the charmer. You have spent more time around the dwarf than I."

Margaery let out an involuntary hiss as she watched the Stark girl's head whiplash upwards, her gaze breaking from staring at the simple pair of white slippers she wore upon her feet. She was barely able to stifle the smile of amusement that threatened to break free, though her lips twitched as Sansa's cobalt blue eyes narrowed until they were mere slits.

"My dear friend," Sansa began, at first sounding somewhat hesitant, though as her eyes darkened and flashed in anger, turning into almost a cerulean hue color the angrier she became, "it is beneath of you to call my lord husband that. Though I do not deny that is what he is, in my mind, the term is quite derogatory, as are the other names he possesses."

This time, she did not bother to hide her smile. Margaery dipped her head in acknowledgement. "You have my deepest apologies, Sansa. I meant no offense. What then, shall I call him?"

"What he is." She answered sharply and simply, fixing Margaery with an unusually hard stare that made Margaery Tyrell question her earlier belief that Sansa Stark did not possess the cunning intelligence and strength enough for the last lone She-Wolf of Winterfell to survive in the Lion's den. "A man. And as to him being a charmer, well…I have heard that he can be. In the—in the right moods," Sansa stammered, her blush deepening and she bit the wall of her cheek and painfully twisted her hands together.

It felt as though Sansa were finally about to arrive at the heart of their conversation and get to the point of their talk, whatever was weighing so heavily on her fragile mind.

" _But_?" Margaery pressed, sensing that the Stark girl needed assistance and a little bit of gentle prodding to coax the truth out of her. "I am sensing again that you are troubled. Your sons and daughters will be Lord and noblewomen in their own right one day, perhaps even ruler of both Casterly Rock and the entire North and Winterfell one day."

"Our sons…daughters…" Sansa breathed, suddenly sounding quite breathless. "With _him_. I'll have to… _we'll_ have to…tonight?" Now it was Sansa's turn to blush, and she promptly looked away.

Margaery smirked and pretended to keep her gaze fixated on their path at their feet, though occasionally shooting little glances at Sansa Stark out of the corner of her eyes.

"If it is the pain you are worried about, then let me assure you there is nothing—"

"Oh, I'm not afraid of the pain," Sansa was quick to interject. "Not after what our king has done to me," she answered bitterly, biting her bottom lip so hard that Margery wondered if by the end of the night, the poor girl would even have a lip after all of this.

"What is it then?" Margaery asked, and when the youthful redhead turned to regard the older brunette, her eyebrows shot so high up onto her forehead that Sansa briefly thought they had disappeared. "Oh." Then it hit Margaery. " _Oh_. But he is a Lannister, albeit one with influence. Perhaps not the man you might have chosen for yourself, b—but he is rather handsome, isn't he? He's rather good looking, even with the scar. _Especially_ with the scar," Margery grinned, a wistful little sigh escaping her breath as she herself was not ashamed to admit that sometimes she had wondered what the little lord was like in bed. Tyrion's bride made no comment, which prompted Margaery to continue. "I can assure that you Lord Tyrion will treat you with kindness. You may not have seen it the other day, but _I_ was paying very _close_ attention. I see how he looks at you. I think that he has grown to become quite fond of you and will do what he can to ensure that you are comfortable during your marriage and stay here. He seems to have taken quite a liking to you, and I can see no reason for you to protest to this match, considering that you…that you are…still a virgin," Margaery finally emphasized, and she exhaled a tense relieved breath as she knew by the look in the Stark girl's eyes that Sansa had taken no offense.

"And this is a good thing?" Sansa asked, sounding more intrigued than insulted.

Margaery nodded. "It can be, Lady Sansa. The fact that he is… _experienced_ in the vast arts of pleasure, you can work that to your advantage, despite the…height difference," to which Margaery's comment earned a snort of amusement from Sansa. She grinned. "Some women like tall men. Some like short men. Some like hairy men, others bald. Gentlemen, rough men, ugly men, pretty men, pretty girls… Some women don't even know what they like until they've tried it, and so many of us get to try so little before we're old, decrepit, and gray," she sighed. "Tyrion may surprise you, Sansa. From what I hear tell of him, he is…quite experienced as a lover. And it is a moment that you will be able to share together. I do not think that he would every lay a hand upon you in anger, like…like…" _Joffrey_ , is what her conscience screamed at her, though she would not utter his name from her lips.

Margery swallowed and returned her focus back to Lady Sansa at hand, who was still waiting for Margaery to elaborate as they drew closer towards the Great Sept. "We're very complicated, you know, us women. Pleasing us takes practice. You will be just fine. The fact that your lord husband is… _experienced_ , shall we say, in the ways of women and what we like, is a good thing, Lady Sansa. It means that you can just…lay back and enjoy and let him please you." Margery bit down on her tongue at the look of utter astonishment and shock in Sansa Stark's cobalt blue eyes as they paused outside the doors of the Great Sept of Baelon. She could tell just by the way the Stark girl's face had paled, that her mind was reeling as her brain struggled to catch up and process Margery's words of wisdom to her.

"How do you know all of this?" Sansa heard herself ask. "Did your mother teach you?"

Margaery made a muffled little noise that sounded like she was about to choke on her own tongue. Her brain stuttered for several long moments and her eyes took in more fading late afternoon light than she ever expected as her mind processed Sansa's innocence. Every part of Margaery felt like it went on pause while her thoughts struggled to catch up, and she felt her fingers were jumping rhythmically, as if in a strange spasm.

Words left her. Margaery stared into Sansa Stark's bright blue eyes, wide and round as a dinner plate, brimming with intrigue and a pure, innocent curiosity. "Please tell me." Sansa's plea sounded desperate, though laced with something else as well, something that Margaery could not quite identify.

But the prize flower of Highgarden could not quite bring herself to answer, to will her lips to move to form an answer. As if stuck underwater, everything was slow and warbled as she felt Sansa's long fingernails dig into the side of her arm in a fit of nervous anxiety and anticipation, hard enough to pierce the skin and bleed. Margery visibly winced but ignored the pain.

But her mind felt blank as untouched parchment paper and her eyes wide as she stared at Sansa Stark in dawning confusion. How such a creature could be so sweet and pure as this one, by the gods and the Light of the Seven, Tyrion would no doubt teach her.

Sansa's cobalt blue eyes desperately searched hers…waiting. Sansa Stark was a delicate little flower immune to the ways of the cruel world, somehow having managed to maintain her innocence this long at the ripe age of eighteen, with almost a childlike curiosity, was astonishing to Margaery.

Sex was the anticipation of being together in a way that was more than words, in a way that was so completely tangible, and for Margery, oft it was not just that a duty was being fulfilled in attempting to produce an heir for whichever King she happened to marry, whether that was Renly or soon, Joffrey.

She had to say something! Margery quickly wracked her mind and searched it for something reasonable to say, but to her great surprise, her heart answered for her. As she turned back around to face Tyrion Lannister's bride, she felt her lips lift upward and the way her one dimple crinkled. The way her white teeth were perfectly aligned, the warm glow that she hoped her happiness gave off. Anything to alleviate Sansa Stark's concerns of this night.

Margaery Tyrell's smile was a ray of sunshine, and everybody else, the sunburns. "Yes, sweet, sweet girl. My mother taught me," she laughed in delight, tossing her hair back over her shoulders and relinquishing her grip upon Sansa's arm as they reached the front doors of the Great Sept of Baelor.

The girls' giggling fit as Sansa joined Margaery in laughter was immediately diminished as the sound of sharp footfalls echoed behind the pair of women, and Sansa Stark and Margaery Tyrell let out tense exhales as a man's voice, deep and baritone, interrupted their laughter.

"Lady Stark," came _his_ voice. _Tywin_.

Sansa and Margaery cringed and turned around slowly, and both women had to practically crane their neck upwards to look into the cold, icy pale blue eyes of the tall and imposing figure before them. The way the man's eyes squinted as he regarded Sansa in her wedding gown and as Sansa promptly returned the newcomers' arrival reminded Margaery of a pit viper's slit-like pupils.

Margaery swallowed nervously, though she was determined to mask her fear, and she felt her features slide into that look of 'casual indifference' that she had perfected over the years, careful not to show emotion around Tywin Lannister. A burning animosity was developing in his cerulean blue orbs, and it was clear that Sansa could tell that she was likely the root cause of Tywin's problems…

His eyes were glacier blue. They showed no sense of kindness or compassion, or any feeling whatsoever, for that matter. The man had donned a simple black jerkin and breeches for his son's wedding, complete with a black leather overcoat, his graying hair only seeming to aid in his rather intimidating and fearful appearance. The man, if anything, was fitter looking than either Margaery or Sansa had expected from such a distinguished member of authority. Tywin's face told of a lean body beneath his clothes, and his expression, although serious, was not all together unkind towards the women.

His gray hair against pale skin that still looked youthful in the right light was flattering, even Margaery had to admit it. Margaery finally tore her gaze away from Tywin and looked towards Sansa Stark and was surprised to see the Stark girl meeting his gaze.

Margaery felt her face drain of color and she blinked owlishly in shock as she regarded the younger girl who had become something of a friend to her over the last several weeks.

Margaery had never once seen Sansa look this way. Her normally kind cobalt blue eyes, which ensnared most in their trap if you were fortunate enough to get a good look, now held within them a deadness, a horrible, empty stillness. The girl who laughed often, the one who could quickly become everyone's friend in an instant, had developed an icy hardness. It was as if Margaery could read everything Sansa blamed Tywin Lannister for in regard to the disintegration of her family and the freedom of choice removed from her in one extended glower, and forgiveness was not an option.

Margaery was left standing outside the Great Sept of Baelor in a stunned stupor, words not able to flow from her languid silver tongue as they usually were, as Tywin Lannister offered a curt nod and a stiff little half-bow and immediately offered his arm to Sansa. He had, Margaery quickly realized, been standing in wait for Sansa Stark so that he could escort the bride down the aisle of the Sept to where her future lord husband waited.

Margery bit the wall of her cheek as Sansa, never once averting her gaze from the grandfather of King Joffrey, stiffly enclosed her arm around Lord Tywin's, and Margaery watched as the aging man's gaze briefly wandered the length of the Stark girl's slender figure, eye-catching in her wedding gown, and then up towards her hair, the waterfall braid interwoven with delicate purple and blue flowers in her hair, the rest of her hair cascading in loose, natural ringlets to just past her breasts, that which rivaled winter fire in its fiery hues, which in the right light, gleaned and shone like fiery embers, bewitching.

Though Sansa was careful to maintain a perfect composure of indifference, there was no mistaking it in her eyes. Margaery saw as did Lord Tywin too, of that she was certain, the look of disgust for the grandfather of the king as a look of revulsion and complete and utter hatred for Lord Tywin Lannister flitted through her cerulean orbs.

She watched as Sansa's posture became stiff, rigid, hate and enmity welling up in the younger girl's heart, fury itself burning her up until Margaery wondered if the girl would spontaneously combust into flames the moment she crossed the threshold and set foot inside the Great Sept of Baelon, though her anger was _not_ , she believed, directed at Lord Tyrion, for he had been nothing but kind to her the last few weeks, Sansa claimed.

No. Margaery knew Sansa's anger was directed at Tywin, no doubt she had noticed the look of desire and lust for the budding beauty of a white winter rose holding his arm.

Margaery offered Sansa what she hoped was a kind smile as Sansa Stark risked one last glance over her shoulder as Lord Tywin opened the doors to the Sept of Baelor and escorted Lady Sansa inside, Margaery trailing close behind, intending to find Loras and her Grandmother and take her proper seat while the wedding ceremony commenced.

It was no secret that Tywin Lannister felt nothing but bitterness and disgust for Tyrion, for ripping his wife's life away the moment Tyrion emerged from her womb.

With each passing year, his hatred of the Imp grew like a festering wound, pushing on the side of Tywin Lannister that was serene, enveloping the man in a strange toxic darkness, until all that remained was a disgusted self-loathing for the strange little lord.

Margaery surmised that one of perhaps many reasons he had demanded Tyrion marry Sansa in an effort to attempt to control the North and Winterfell, was that if he offered the dwarf a bride, then Tyrion would do his duty to his house and sire an heir.

Plant his seed in Sansa's belly and impregnate her with a Lannister child. Only time would tell. Margaery swiftly made her way towards the front of the Sept, seating herself next to Lady Olenna and Ser Loras, and her ears perked up at the sound of a tense emanating exhale and she realized it was Lord Tyrion who had made the strange sigh.

The question that he asked to no one in particular was unlike the little lord, the handsome man's face a constraining mix of restraint and a desire, and his gazed was fixated upon that of his lord father escorting his bride down the aisle, solely her alone.

As if the entire rest of King's Landing had become devoid of women and she was the only one left. A strange look for Tyrion admittedly. His blue eyes were electrifying, and Margaery could have sworn she saw a light blush speckle along his cheeks before he looked away and murmured something lowly under his breath in agitation.

He had thought he kept his voice low enough, so no one heard it, but she did.

"…Do I even deserve her?"


	4. Sansa

**Sansa**

Sansa did not know which was worse. Her rolling nerves in her stomach, or the fact that she had never seen the Great Sept of Baelon as packed and crowded as it was before, the most important day of her life. Her wedding day. And that they were all here to catch a glimpse of her, and no doubt to make fun of the Imp.

That thought alone was enough to make her stomach churn and for bile to coat the back of her throat, though she swallowed it back and kept her face set to a passive neutrality, hoping that her eyes did not betray her fear. It wasn't that she minded having to wed Tyrion (well, she did mind, more than a little,) but she had time to think over Margaery Tyrell's words, and the girl had been right on all counts.

That he was far from the worst Lannister she could marry, and Tyrion did treat her with respect, and he was, Sansa admitted, good-looking, despite their height differences, so it was these facts alone that rang in her ears like a mantra, refusing to part from her thoughts, though it did nothing to quell the raging storm in her stomach, _or_ the fact that her arm was being held in a vice grip by Lord Tywin Lannister, father of the demonic boy-king who met his grandfather less than halfway down the aisle and extended his arm out towards Sansa.

"Grandfather," he said in a tone laced with false courtesy and joy. "I should like to escort the bride the rest of the way to greet her future lord husband if it please you. I would not dare to miss Uncle's special day, would I? Please. Allow me."

The sentence as it tumbled from King Joffrey's mouth was not a command, and Sansa could have sworn for a brief second, she saw Tywin's cold blue eyes flash angrily, resembling that of the sharpest steel of armor, but he quickly bowed his head and relinquished his grip upon Sansa's left arm, stepping back and offering an awkward little half bow in the presence of His Grace the King.

"Of course, Your Grace," he murmured courteously, though Sansa could tell he was displeased as he stepped in line to stand next to Cersei, who just the very sight of made Sansa's blood curdle, as if soured by lemon and old milk.

Sansa's mind screamed at her to recoil as the King took her arm, his pale, spindly fingers tightly clutching onto her arm, almost possessively so. "Wh—what are you _doing_?" she whisper-hissed through gritted teeth, careful to keep her voice low, though it was not enough to prevent the fuming rage from seeping into her voice. "Your _grandfather_ was to be the one to walk me down the aisle. Not you!" She was unable to keep the disgust out of her tone.

"You think I would _miss_ the opportunity to give the bride away to my lord uncle? You've done it, Lady Sansa. You have married a Lannister at last. Glorious day indeed." King Joffrey retorted gleefully. There was a strange glistening in the boy's eyes that Sansa was not at all sure that she liked.

King Joffrey squinted at Sansa through hardened eyes that had once been Sansa's salvation, or so she had foolishly believed when she was a stupid, young girl, with stupid, naïve dreams, but now, they only brought the unfounded accusations of a jealous lover, though prior to being discarded by the King in favor of Margaery, she wasn't entirely sure that they had even been that at all.

Their color only yesterday reminded Sansa of the White Harbor, gazing out to where the blue of the oceans blended into the blue of the sky, but now…now, they were simply chilling. Every muscle in Joffrey Baratheon's face was tense and without a single word, the boy-king communicated to his uncle's bride a sense of intense mistrust, anger, despising Sansa for daring to marry Tyrion.

The way his facial muscles tensed, the way he glowered at her, silently seething, clenching his fists rhythmically and the horrible way he smirked at her.

_As if I had a choice_ , she thought bitterly, swallowing down that fire-seed of anger that she felt welling deep within the pits of her stomach. _I have no voice_.

He was planning something, though what that thing might be, she had not the faintest idea.

Sansa bit the inside of her cheek and before she could fathom what was happening, she felt her arm move of its own accord and untangle itself from the wretched boy-king with the head and the eyes of a pit viper serpent staring back at her, and she wrenched her arm away violently, as though the very touch of his skin upon hers burned her. She tasted bitter, acidic bile creeping its way from her throat wherein it settled upon her tongue like a disgusting poison.

The words that tumbled unchecked to the miserable King walking in tandem next to her poured out of her lips before she could even think of stopping herself.

"I can _walk_ by myself, Your Grace, thank you," she answered stiffly, resisting the urge to stomp her foot and kick King Joffrey Baratheon in the balls where she knew that it would hurt him the worst. She promptly stiffened her facial muscles, preparing for another of Joffrey's outbursts as she turned her back on the king and left the man-boy standing in the middle of the aisle, a flabbergasted expression etched on his face, mouth agape.

Sansa fought back a low growl of displeasure as it threatened to escape from her throat as she violently snatched the Cloak of Protection from a nearby knight of the King's Guard that Tyrion was meant to place upon her shoulders and wordlessly handed it to the man who was about to become her future husband and shot Tyrion a brief little wink, though she did not dare glance back over her shoulder.

Sansa knew she did not want to see the murderous expression in King Joffrey's eyes, and she could not quell the sinking feeling that had begun to form in the pit of her stomach. She had a feeling she would be paying for that little moment of insolence later at their wedding feast if he could get her alone.

Well. That would _not_ happen, for she had no intentions of leaving Tyrion's side. Margaery had been right. There was a rather uncharacteristic way that he was looking at her just now, a mixture of admiration at what she had just done to his nephew, for there were not many in King's Landing who would refuse him, and perhaps a mixture of something else, that Sansa could not quite identify.

She swallowed nervously and reluctantly allowed herself to glance down and look at Tyrion's face, where Lord Tyrion waited, and he too, she was rather pleased to see, had a strange look of displeasure on his face at Joffrey escorting his bride down the aisle, and Joffrey had held onto her arm longer than she'd have liked, but when he had finally relinquished it and went to stand next to his mother, Sansa and Tyrion both exhaled a faint sigh of relief through their nostrils.

"Vicious little bastard cunt. Who the bloody hell does he think he is. If he hurt you, tell me later," she heard him whisper, his voice only low enough so that she could hear, and much to her surprise, Sansa felt the beginnings of a smile tug at the corners of her lips and pull her mouth upwards, and she could have sworn as she shot him a brief little smile that the little lord blushed and looked away.

"Who comes before the gods on this evening to be wed?" The deep, baritone voice resounded from a burly aging man in a set of pristine white robes.

"Lady Sansa of the House Stark," Sansa heard herself speak, her voice cracked and wavered as she was forced to raise her voice so that the attending witnesses and guests could hear. She swallowed hard past the lump forming in her throat. "I come here to—to be wed. I am a woman grown, eighteen, trueborn and noble, Your Grace. I came to seek the approval and blessing of the Gods and the Light of the Seven in holy matrimony on this night. To…be one with mine own kin, sir. The choice is mine. I give myself on this evening since my lord father is no longer with us to give away the bride. I—I would…like to…take this my as my husband, Your Grace, if you please," she whispered through gritted teeth.

_Lies. Lies. This whole family. Snakes in the night. They might claim to be noble lions, but they're nothing but snakes. This choice was completely Lord Tywin's. the Lion did not give you or Tyrion a choice_. Her conscience could not have picked a worse time to be unhelpful. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, though she blinked back the salty, briny liquid and as a muscle in her jaw twitched, she seemed to find her inner resolve as she thought of Margaery's words. _He's far from the worst Lannister, wouldn't you say? He will be kind_.

Sansa did not bother to wait as she hastily knelt to her knees, wincing only once as the hard stones of the platform seemed to dig into her knees through her gown despite the material acting as a barrier and waited for Tyrion to place the cloak around her shoulders. She heard the light, chuckling laughter spread throughout the crowd of the Sept, the murmurings and the titters, and felt the heat creep to her cheeks, though she paid them no mind, for which, she could see that Tyrion was immensely grateful, if judging by how his cheeks flamed red that it bothered him, she could see that much. Tyrion cared what people thought of him.

_Perhaps too much_ , she thought sadly, blinking owlishly at the man as she caught a brief glimpse of just how sad his eyes looked. Clearly, the foolish peoples' opinions mattered a great deal to him throughout his lifetime of scorn and judgement, and Sansa knew that no matter what, forced marriage or otherwise, perhaps if she treated him with kindness (not that she'd had it in her mind to do so otherwise) then he would, as Margaery said, be quite kind to her.

And maybe…maybe she could convince him to flee King's Landing with her. Just go somewhere. Anywhere would be better than living in this wretched cesspool of a city where you could smell the shit from five miles away.

They could live in Winterfell perhaps, assuming something could be done about the wretched family that was rumored to live within her family's walls now. The Bolton's. She knew very little about the family, only that they were rumored to be quite violent. Especially the son. Ramsay. The Bastard Skinflayer.

She shuddered but did not avert her gaze from Tyrion and she smiled, noting the look on his face and she quickly realized the lord looked offended, and she felt the heat speckle along her cheeks. "It is not you," she whispered in a low murmur. "Forgive me, milord. I was thinking of…someone else, Lord Tyrion. Not you. Never you." Sansa hissed.

Sansa could goose flesh break out on her arms as her skin pricked and bile corrupted in the back of her throat as the officiant's words rang through the hall.

"And who claims this woman?"

Tyrion cleared his throat once and took a small half-step forward. Well, all of his steps were small, but that was beside the point. "Tyrion, of House Lannister. Former Hand of the King and Heir to Casterly Rock," he called out.

Sansa exhaled a shaking breath through her nose as her hallowed breathing seemed like it stretched until her throat hurt. "Sansa Stark of Winterfell." She looked up quietly at the curt commanding of her attention, and all would have noticed the despair in her face as the Lannisters and their guests stared aghast.

Even Lord Tywin Lannister lost the impassive look on his face and replaced within was a cautious, fuming expression. The septon coughed, clearing his throat to return peoples' attentions to the matter at hand. "Do you take this man?"

Sansa bit the wall of her cheek as she shifted slightly on her knees to regard Lord Tyrion, who was beginning to look quite tense as the Imp regarded his bride with narrowed, suspicious, and yet strangely hopeful eyes. It was the hope she chose to cling to instead of the other emotions.

The hope that she would treat him well, as his lady wife. She would certainly try. _Far from the worst Lannister, Sansa_ , she reminded herself, swallowing hard past the lump in her throat as she recollected actively averting King Joffrey's gaze. Suddenly, she did not pity Margaery or her situation at all. Tyrion did not seem so bad compared to _him_.

Were that _she_ the one to be forced to marry Joffrey, Sansa knew that on their wedding night, she would kill herself with poison before ever allowing that vicious little man-boy of a king to ever dare to lay so much as a single finger on her head.

And then it hit her, as the septon, Tyrion, the other Lannisters, and the wedding guests were waiting for Sansa Stark to regain control of her voice. That there was no escaping this situation. Not as she would have liked. It was a damned place, King's Landing. A dark place, just as the Red Keep was dark.

_Maybe we would be better off if we were to live in Casterly Rock,_ she thought, biting down hard on her tongue, hard enough to taste iron and smell the metallic, coppery scent of blood as it began to well upon the tender appendage.

Sansa visibly flinched as she shifted her knees, her shins beginning to ache from having knelt for an extended period of time, but she did not regret her decision. If this would spare Lord Tyrion the humiliation of having to use the little wooden step ladder, then so be it. She could handle the jeers and the laughs.

She exhaled nervously through her nose and shifted her head to the left slightly to regard Lord Tyrion, shot him a brief, curt smile to ease his discomfort, and stated, "I, Sansa Stark, take this man." She stifled her smile as she again heard the tittering's of the crowd of sheep among this den of Lions, as the guests murmured their blessings and approval of the match, one which Sansa accepted.

Lord Tyrion stepped towards her and looking into her eyes, she could not stop the feeling of squeamishness that rolled through her stomach in painful cramps. Though Sansa could not help but to think he had beautiful cobalt blue eyes for being the black, disgraced sheep of the Lannister family, Imp or not.

The Imp sighed and looked at her with those blue eyes touched by storm clouds. She had never seen any other emotion lingering within them other than contempt. But now, it was as if they embraced the wind. A brief gust before returning to a calm sea. The emotion in Lord Tyrion Lannister's eyes was fathoms deep, yet they carried the warmth and life of the sunlit surface. They had a thousand hues of blue and a small touch of hazel radiating in softly swooping arcs. To say that his eyes were blue was like saying that the sun was yellow.

Sufficient but not accurate to capture the burning. Sansa blinked, pulling herself out of her stupor as she realized she had lost herself in staring at his eyes.

How sad they looked. Tinged with melancholic, and angry at the world. The people often said that eyes were the window to a person's soul. But the thing is, she could see right through Tyrion Lannister. She could see his pains and his gentleness just the same, as she could see his overwhelming desire to be loved and accepted by people who just quite frankly did not give a goddamn about him.

Sansa saw how every single emotion came together to form the art of his soul. It formed a picture she could see in a split instant and comprehend with full depth. So, she saw Tyrion in this moment, for what he was. Who he was. When she would tell him later that she believed his eyes to be beautiful, the best quality about him beside his mind and his thick luscious head of curly hair that rivaled that of Ser Loras's, Sansa Stark knew this to be the truth, for it was not about the eyes' colors or shapes. No.

It was about the human essence that was so clearly there. Those angry eyes of his were his pains untold, and Sansa suddenly wished that he would tell it, given they were about to become man and wife, that she could better understand Lord Tyrion and understand how his mind worked, she did.

As his wife, she would be forced to be his in any storm, but…here was the thing. He would have to keep her safe from them. He would have to let Sansa all the way in so that he would always trust her and she only ever saw his kind eyes, because the Gods and Seven Hells below only knew that she had seen enough anger in the rest of the Lannister family's eyes to last more than a long lifetime.

Because…, and she could not believe she was admitting this next part, that she _wanted_ to stay with Tyrion if it meant that she would be safe, if there was even an inkling that she might be able to return home one day, but he would have to be good for her too. The septon spoke again in an ancient, warbling old tone.

"Tyrion Lannister, you will give your token of promise to Sansa Stark, that you will promise to keep her and cherish her, as a signature to her and her house."

"I do," he answered solemnly, and even Sansa was surprised at the seriousness of Lord Tyrion's tone. The man who laughed often, made jokes…

If she was being honest with herself, there was a small part of her that looked forward to keeping the company of a man who could make her laugh, for she could not honestly remember the last time that she genuinely laughed or smiled, save for the moment in the gardens but a few days ago when they'd had that wonderful discussion of sheep shifting Lord Desmond's bed out of revenge.

The septon mumbled something to the pair of them, but Sansa was not paying very close attention. She watched, inhaling a sharp breath of air as Lord Tyrion took a somewhat hesitant step forward, bound out of a sense of duty to his house to seal their union with their first kiss as husband and wife. Sansa immediately tensed, though upon seeing the hurt look in Tyrion's brilliant blue eyes, she let out a sigh and gave an apologetic nod. She knew that he did not love her, that this marriage was purely political, but it was their duty now as a union…

Sansa found herself staring deep into Tyrion's ocean blue eyes, hating the thudding of her heartbeat as it rattled against its cage in the confines of her chest, beating so damn loudly she couldn't even concentrate on what had just happened.

It felt like she was going to explode as Tyrion carefully stepped forward and slipped the plain gold wedding band onto her finger. They were…they were _wed_.

She let a tired sigh escape her lips, closing her eyes in anticipation for whatever was coming next, though she knew it, and he did. They _all_ knew it.

Then, without warning, something warm yet coarse pressed themselves against her lips. Sansa's eyes flung wide open as she fought against the urge to press back, knowing that right now, with all eyes in the Great Sept of Baelor watching, such an unexpected gesture on her part might be too much for him. It took Sansa approximately one point three seconds to realize that Tyrion had— _was_ —kissing her and a further three point eight seconds for Sansa to realize she was returning it. His lips were slightly chapped, and her bones ached from kneeling on the mezzanine of the platform and she could taste the metallic tang of blood on her tongue, but she did not care because all she could focus on was this.

For now, just forcing her body to relax and keeping still would have to be enough. She had to remember to keep things slow, for her sanity, and for his.

Sansa firmly believed that there was no doubt in Tyrion's mind that she reviled him, repulsed by his appearance, his scar, though she knew that not to be the case. In fact, his lips felt warm against hers and created a strange, burning tingling that she did not know could ever exist, but nor could she have ever imagined that her first kiss would come from a dwarf.

But, still, it felt nice, and perhaps a little bit of pressure was not going to overwhelm him? She breathed slowly through her nose, taking a deep breath and returned the strange pressure that was against her lips. Tyrion's reaction was more startled than she expected, and she wondered if she had gone too far.

Yet, when she tried to pull away, her now-husband's hand came up and cupped the back of her head, thus slowing her movements. "It is all right," he whispered, pulling back slightly so that he could see her clearly, taking note of how high and flushed her cheeks were, a bright pink in color. His own face was flushed a deep crimson, which made the ragged pink and white lines of his scar that much more shocking against his skin, and he looked rather apologetic.

He relinquished his hold from her cheek and untangled his hands from her hair, pulling away as though she had burned him, looking rather put off and sheepish. "Come wife," he murmured, gesturing with a curt wave of his arm as the crowd in the Sept began to disperse and talk amongst themselves, heading back towards the Red Keep, no doubt where the banquet hall was being set up.

The pair ignored the blessing and congratulations, the guests' voices, save for perhaps Margaery's and Lady Olenna's, who merely sounded sympathetic to Sansa's plight, dripping with false cheer and well-wishes that sounded more to Sansa like poisoned honey, sweet yet bitter at the same time. Strange.

Sansa exhaled shakily through her nose as she followed her lord husband's lead, her head held high and actively avoided everyone's gaze, though she could feel King Joffrey's glacier cold stare practically burning a hole in the back of her skull, hotter than any branding iron for cattle, horses or sheep as the boy-king fell into line behind his mother and grandfather to head towards the hall.

She visibly winced.

Tyrion noticed her look and cast a weary glance back over his shoulder towards Joffrey, who still had the strange little gleam in his cobalt blue eyes, and he furrowed his brows into a frown. "Our King will remember your refusal of his arm, milady," he murmured, lowering his voice so that only Sansa could hear.

She scowled, feeling her brows knit together in a frown. "I hope so!" she chirped, not bothering to fight the beginnings of a smile on her face as she glanced down her nose at Tyrion. "Your nephew no longer frightens me, Lord Tyrion."

He nodded, though Sansa could tell he did not quite seem convinced, for he glanced back over his shoulder again and quickened his pace as best as he could to match Sansa's strides as they headed towards their wedding feast. He wore the look of a man who wanted nothing more than to get this little farce over with, and Sansa supposed she could not blame him, though she hoped he would at least allow himself a little enjoyment in the evening and stayed away from the copious amounts of red Dornish wine that was sure to be in excessive supply this evening.

For even Sansa could not deny as her curiosity finally got the better of her and she risked one glance over her shoulder, back towards where Joffrey and Cersei were lingering, seemingly in no hurry to find their places in the banquet hall, that there was no mistaking the look of burning animosity in the King's orbs.

Sansa swallowed nervously as she quickly averted Joffrey's gaze and made to follow Lord Tyrion, hoping that if she could just stick close enough, Joffrey would leave behind and forget the incident of Sansa refusing the king's arm.

A blatant show of disrespect towards the insolent king, and Sansa resisted the urge to reach down and take Lord Tyrion's hand, knowing full well that doing so would prompt yet again another vicious round of gossiping tongues.

"How do you feel?" Sansa heard herself asking, her own face flushed as she could practically feel Lord Tyrion lift his head blearily to look at his new wife. "Did you feel comfortable?" Sansa was, of course, referring to their kiss.

Tyrion made a strangled little noise from the back of his throat, as though not anticipating being asked such a question from a woman who he had previously been led to believe despised him and reviled him as some form of beast. His face flushed even deeper red still, yet he slowly nodded his head as he looked at her incredulously, as though hardly daring to believe his wife's words.

Sansa returned the nod, feeling the heat creep onto her own cheeks as she took another shaking breath to steady her rapidly pounding heart and quell the rolling nerves in her stomach. "Then…that is all that matters, milord." She offered him another reassuring smile and this time, she leaned down and put her hand on his shoulder again and gave it a light but firm squeeze. "I am learning, so I hope that…you can be patient with me, I—if we could…go slow?" she asked.

She bit the wall of her cheek and then stuck out her bottom lip in a slight pout and bit down hard as she waited for Tyrion to say something—anything—in response to her request. What his response to her request would be would determine if she would be able to respect him and perhaps even grow to love him.

Sansa exhaled in relief as he nodded, feeling her shoulders sag in relief.

"Yes. We will go as slow as you need to, so do not feel rushed, Sansa. Besides," he added, a light little smirk forming on his face that Sansa found she rather liked, for she could detect no malice in the gesture. Not like whenever that wretched little shit Joffrey smirked at her behind her back, or his mother. "I rather like it this way. If you are comfortable with _this_ , with _me_ , then I am."

But still. Even Sansa could not deny that a part of her craved some form of comfort, whether that was to hold his hand or just to sit with him. Anything to seek some form of reassurance that Joffrey would not bother her on this evening.

She could not shake the feeling that as long as she remained in close proximity to Tyrion, that somehow, everything would be okay, and Joffrey would not bother her on her wedding night. Still. There was no point in trying to deny that Sansa, by refusing Joffrey's arm, had publicly shamed, humiliated the man.

Sansa swallowed nervously, the intensity of Joffrey's staring practically burning that hole into the back of her skull deepening. She could no more avoid conversing with the little king than she could the beating of her own heart as it pounded with futility against its cage of bone and cartilage. The dread she felt at Joffrey Baratheon confronting her over what she had done was an invisible shadow demon, sitting heavy on her shoulders, and she could only hear the sharpening of its knives as it whispered evil thoughts of malice into her ear.

She sweat and became pale, and then the tremor in her hands began. Her head became a little giddy and her stomach nauseous, suddenly no longer hungry. The dread crept down her spine like a careful spider leaving a trail of silk. Sansa could feel her feet on the skin of her neck, causing the hairs on her neck to stand on end, descending until she almost felt herself frozen on the spot. Something was wrong. She could not shake the feeling as if Sansa were being watched.

Her stomach felt full of lead, her feet set in stone; her mind worryingly empty as she followed Tyrion into the banquet hall, surrounded by his family.

Sansa swallowed as her mouth suddenly felt dry as she accidentally met Joffrey's gaze and he smirked that infuriatingly little smile at her, so cold and devoid of warmth. Joffrey Baratheon would have had the face of angel or a saint if his lips would ever break farther apart. The edge was pushed up as he met Sansa's gaze, scrunching his left eye up, making his blue eye appear gray.

Joffrey's lips parted a little, making it seductive to many women. All but her. Yet the faked smile on the King's face made him appear even more arrogant.

The dread crept over her like an icy chill in the winds of winter back home in Winterfell, numbing her brain. She could not shake the sense that she was about to pay for humiliating her King earlier, and in her frozen state, her mind only offered her one thought. It was tonight. There was no avoiding this…

She felt like a cow being herded into a pen for slaughter, only the cow did not know where it was going, and Sansa did. Straight into the arms of Death.

Sansa licked her lips to moisten them, though no moisture came and before she could even fathom, she felt her arm move instinctively of its own accord and grip onto Tyrion's, not giving a damn that she had to stoop slightly in order to do it. _As long as I stay by his side, he wouldn't let Joffrey do anything to me…_

But if only she could have known how wrong she was…


	5. Reek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: You didn’t think I was going to do a Sansa story without featuring Theon, did you? Theon’s another favorite character of mine who had a significant story arc and I loved how he was able to redeem himself in Sansa’s eyes. He’s got a little bit of a different role in this story and I had to wrack my brain to think of ways I could get him here and still have it seem legit, but ‘order of the king’ seems like a good enough excuse to me, so there you have it. 
> 
> Also, Sansa’s personality is a little bit different in my story in case you can’t already tell. I didn’t really like how whiny she could be on the show, so I’m kind of trying to make her more like Margaery and have a backbone and not so weepy all the time lol, in that it might not be THE life she wanted for herself, but she is adapting and will learn to make the best of her situation.  
> Enjoy! 😊

** Reek **

The man once known as Theon Greyjoy licked his lips to moisten them and found that he could not. He was surprised that _Master_ had even agreed to this but disobeying the order of King Joffrey of Westeros meant unleashing a vast amount of hell that not even the Bolton family would be prepared for.

He swallowed nervously and dared to peek around the corner, taking great care to hide in the shadows as his gaze wandered and he caught a glimpse of her. Sansa Stark of Winterfell now wed to the Imp. Now, he was known by another name, and he could only pray that Lady Stark would not recognize him, though even as poor Reek kept his eyes violently clenched shut, that this was a futile wish, that the gods would be foolish to grant his prayers. He deserved whatever humiliation King Joffrey and Master were conspiring to throw Reek the Freak’s way.

The summons had come to Master Bolton late in the night about three weeks ago, included in the king’s seal a vast pouch of gold and silver coins in exchange for the ‘borrowing’ of Reek to present to Lady Sansa as her wedding gift from the Bolton Family, regards from the North. _The North Remembers_. Wasn’t that what Master had said?

What in the seven hells was the little boy-king’s line of vicious, twisted thinking, even Reek did not know, nor did he want to guess his reasons, but the gleam in Master’s cobalt blue eyes had been enough for Master to agree to the king’s terms, and Reek knew that he would have agreed even without the gold. For Master, causing pain was his greatest vice, the thing he craved. Anything to see Reek the Freak suffer, Master Bolton was at the front and center. Reek felt his brows furrow into a frown as he watched.

He seethed, silently hating both Master and this vicious little cunt of a boy-king Joffrey, wishing that someone would plunge a dagger in both wicked men’s hearts, but more than that, he craved Sansa Stark’s forgiveness, and he had a feeling that he would not get it from her. Ever.

_But you do not deserve Stark’s forgiveness because you’re a nasty, nasty animal. Animal!_ His thoughts tormented him, and the thought of today was, ‘Why?’ Why had Master conspired with King Joffrey in this way, and why was Reek here? What was poor Reek’s purpose tonight? Master Bolton and the King would tell him nothing, only that he was not to move from this very spot until King Joffrey summoned him.

Reek drew in a shuddering breath that pained his lungs as he realized that his fingernails, which by this point in his life now resembled that of claws, were raking down the side of the marble column and peeling off the paint. He let out a hiss and allowed his hands to fall to his sides. He heaved a heavy sigh of relief as he realized that most of the servants who darted by carrying full plates of food barely spared Reek the Freak a second glance, for which he was grateful.

Reek and his life seemed to have departed on separate paths long ago, ever since he had been taken prisoner by the Bolton family and kept as Ramsay Bolton’s personal pet.

But it was hard to tell who gave up on who first. He walked like his bones, the ones that weren’t snapped, twisted, or broken by Master, were only loosely connected, his shoulders moving like a sack of grain with every shuffling heavy footfall as he walked.

His dirtied clothes were badly fitting, but the dirt and grim was apparent even from a distance. His nervous, skittish eyes never left the floor and as the other servants passed him by, Reek tried his hardest to ignore the mumbling of bitter words spat by the serving wenches more than spoken, and the horrible smell of dirt and shit and piss and hounds.

If you were to try to imagine Reek as a baby, a toddler, a young man, an adult, then it would be impossible. This new life of his was just surviving one day at a time, but somehow, first his days in Winterfell, and now however long he was to remain in King’s Landing as Sansa Stark’s personal servant, led to him being little more than human surplus.

Unregarded, unrequired, and unvalued. Reek stood stock still behind the column, glancing down at his worn and dirtied rags, wishing that once, just once, especially tonight, Master would have let him have a nice, hot bath. He swallowed nervously, wishing that with all his might that he could turn around and make for the ocean, fling himself into the waves and drown himself to end his torment, let the sea carry him away.

But the little boy-king, Joffrey, was seated at a long rectangular table, the Lannisters’, seated next to his grandfather, Lord Tywin, sandwiched in between him and his mother, Queen Regent Cersei, and at some point, he was to be summoned. To her.

His broken, battered body started to feel hot and beads of sweat formed on his brow and started trickling down his neck. With every poor move Reek made, he felt his panic well deep within the pits of his stomach as he nervously intertwined his fingers together.

The young man who was nothing more than an empty shell caught sight of his reflection in a broken shard of glass that looked to have come from a wine glass near the heel of his leather boot and poor Reek the Freak startled, not wanting to glimpse at the repulsive man who used to be Theon Greyjoy that stared back. And yet…he found himself unable to tear his gaze away. Reek glanced down at his head, running his hand through his brutally short dark hair, almost bald, as one last taunt from Master.

Punishment for daring to protest his aversion to this idea of himself being presented to Lady Sansa and Lord Tyrion as wedding present. His hair, now coarse to the touch, all traces of softness gone, and he might as well would have preferred it if he were bald. At least then, the hair grew back, but this…this stubble did not become him at all. Theon frowned, the movement creating lines upon his otherwise smooth forehead and a deep groove near his mouth. This. This was the new him. He was not Theon anymore. Not an Iron Borne anymore. No. He was Reek. _Reek the Freak_ , he thought bitterly, feeling his jaw tense and lock up in anger. The sullied rags he wore clung to his too-thin frame, skeletal, almost really. His clothing hung off parts where they ought not, clinging to him in other parts, dirty, worn, and smelling like piss and shit and vomit.

Reek could taste the acidic bile that crept up his throat and lingered on his tongue. A hand settled upon his shoulder and Reek startled, jumping like a rabbit afraid for its skin, as he turned around with a guilty, furtive look on his face and swallowed hard.

No one was there. _Maybe a passing serving girl accidentally bumped into you_.

Reek swallowed nervously and turned back around, careful to remain hidden in the shadows as best he could, desperately wishing that a hole beneath his boots would open up in the floor and swallow him whole and not let him come out until the Lannisters were all dead. Just as bad as the Bolton men, these fucking Lions, though Master was much worse.

Anytime somebody touched him, he jumped, not knowing if the person was friend or foe to poor Reek, if they meant him harm. A powerful chill ran down his spine as he heard King Joffrey’s voice, loud, boisterous, and slightly inebriated, no doubt the effects of the wine, as he clanged his fork against his glass and the entire banquet hall went silent.

Reek emanated a tense exhale as he dared to poke his head around the corner, just enough so that his gaze lingered upon Lady Sansa, who had, if Reek was not mistaken, seemed to be in good spirts and conversing with her new lord husband and Margaery in low tones, though the moment the King commanded the attention of the entire room, her pretty expression soured and she wore a look that suggested she was forced to endure something unpleasant, and Reek was relieved to see that Sansa did not like their King.

King Joffrey said something to the crowd, though Reek only caught snippets. Joffrey Baratheon’s voice made him shiver like a freezing cold wind would wake someone. His blood ran cold and a bead of sweat dripped down his face. He stood there, helpless, not knowing what to do and too scared to even think or make a move forward.

If the tension in the banquet hall were to have been a color, the room would have been painted a crimson, garish red. Reek gulped, swallowing nervously, and waited.

As the full realization and the consequences of his earlier mistakes of daring to question Master and the King’s motivations behind arranging this little surprise wedding gift to the last She-Wolf of Winterfell finally sank in, in the pit of his stomach, Reek felt the strength leave his legs, and he would have fallen were it not for his nails raking down the side of the marble pillar. He drew in another breath of air and poked his head back around, daring to chance a glance at King’s Landing’s King, who was impatiently drumming his fingers on the armrest of the chair, the cold breeze wafting through the drafty room, which Reek thought odd, considering the number of people packed into the hall, all those warm bodies and wine! Not to mention copious amounts of hot food.

Reek could feel his pulse pounding in his temples, throbbing against his sides. Silence, despite the chattering of the various lords and their wives or lovers as they assembled in the banquet hall, lingered in the air. Reek shivered in his claustrophobic corner, trying to shrink into the shadows as much as possible, hoping that Lady Sansa did not move from her spot next to the dwarf, for if she wandered and spotted him? He was dead and Reek the Freak did not think he could stand it, to look into Sansa Stark’s eyes.

Tersely, Reek’s eyes flickered towards the lavish banquet hall that had been minutes ago a hum of excitement and exhilaration as servants and wenches bustled in through the open double doors, carrying platters of hot food that caused poor Reek’s mouth to water just from the good smells that wafted the starving man’s way. His nails were already bitten down to the quick in anticipation of whatever it was Master and the King had in mind for him. He nibbled at their frayed edges (the fingers that at least hadn’t already been cut off) like a famished mouse.

Back in Winterfell, the most Master would ever let Reek have was a few rinds of slightly aged and moldy cheese, stale bread, and water. Never any wine. Master kept the wine for himself. A snippet of the King’s conversation with Sansa reached his eardrums.

“…Congratulations are in order, Lady Sansa,” King Joffrey was saying in a jovial tone as he leaned over his chair to whisper it into the shell of her ear, though Reek’s hearing was excellent. He was beginning to wonder if spending so much time around Master’s hounds was causing his hearing to heighten and increase since his other senses, like taste, smell, now, were dulled. “You have done it. You’ve married a Lannister at long last. And pretty soon, you’ll have a Lannister baby. It’s like a dream come true for you, isn’t it?”

The little boy-king scoffed and rolled his eyes, jeering at the young redhead as he draped his arm over the woman’s shoulder. She flinched and stiffened at the unwanted contact, though made no move to remove the boy’s shoulder, though there was no mistaking the look of growing outrage in Tyrion’s eyes, for his fingers had curled around the rim of his golden wine goblet, his drink barely touched, which was a rarity for Tyrion.

“Though I suppose it doesn’t really matter to you which Lannister puts the baby into you, does it, Lady Sansa? My uncle will not be able to live up the high standards a lady of your caliber deserves,” King Joffrey crooned, and Sansa’s jaw twitched as the boy king cupped her chin in his palm and tilted her head to the side and upwards, forcing Sansa Stark to meet King Joffrey’s gaze.

Reek furrowed his brows into a frown and realized that Lord Tywin was conversing with Lord Tyrion, and the head Lion of the Lannister House did not seem at all pleased.

“…Your wife needs a _child_. A Lannister child. As soon as possible. If you are going to give her one, then you need to perform,” Lord Tywin growled through gritted teeth.

Tyrion said something in response, too low in tone for Reek to make it out, and whatever the dwarf’s response was, Lord Tywin did not seem satisfied with his answer, though his new wife was quick to come to the little lord’s rescue, which surprised Reek.

“You need not worry in that regard, milord, the—the fault is mine, f—for I am…nervous, you see,” Sansa interjected, stammering, and painfully twisting her fingers together and fidgeting with her wedding band, “I have not…experienced the—the physical love of a good man, and I am afraid it is I who am having performance…anxiety issues,” she stammered, the heat creeping to her cheeks.

Tyrion was seemingly stunned into silence and had, in a moment of rarity, lost the ability to form a cohesive thought, much less speak what was on his mind.

Sansa bit her bottom lip and continued. “If we are not blessed with a child in the intermediate future, I am certain it will be because something is wrong with _me_ , and not of my lord husband, from what I hear of the stories, he is quite skilled in matters of that regard, and I am sure that I have nothing to worry about, sir,” and Reek blinked, hardly daring to believe it as he watched as one of the girl’s hands gently drifted towards her lord husband’s side and curled into a protective fist over the tines of his fork, and it was then that Reek realized the dwarf had been holding onto the utensil in such a way, as if he were preparing to stab his lord father in the hand with it. “Your son is ever so patient with me. These things take time to happen, do they not? We will…not fail you, milord.”

Lord Tywin seemed surprised at Sansa Stark’s interference in sparing her lord husband any further humiliation on his wedding night, though he nodded and made no further comment, choosing instead to incline his head in acknowledgement Sansa’s way and sauntered back to his chair, already barking orders for yet more wine.

Reek barely stifled his high-pitched scream of horror that was music to Master's ears as he felt the temperature in the banquet hall drop ten degrees as Master passed him by, purposefully grazing his shoulder against Reek’s side, a not-so-subtle reminder of who Reek belonged to. Who was in charge here.

The air in the mess hall felt so brittle, Reek thought it might snap, and if it didn’t, then poor Reek just might. He drew in a short, gasping breath as stars swam in the front of his vision accompanied by horrible black and purple dots and he thought he might pass out, as he watched as Master Bolton strode forward towards the head of the Lannister table. Master paused and conversed in low tones with King Joffrey, who had the beginnings of a truly twisted and grotesque smile on his face as he nodded gleefully.

Ramsay Bolton was looking exceptionally put together this eve, having made the trip from Winterfell to King’s Landing in order to attend Lord Tyrion and Sansa’s ceremony, in a simple black jerkin with a belt, black form fitting leather breeches, and a black belt and leather boots, his dark hair slicked back with some form of oil to give it a healthy sheen, and his cobalt blue eyes glinted dangerously as his gaze was fixed on her.

His smile was almost predatory, and when he grinned at Lady Stark, the edges of his canines were sharp and pointed, not unlike that of a wolf’s. Reek shuddered in familiarity.

“Lady Sansa,” came Ramsay Bolton’s languid, fluid speech, the words rolling off his tongue as his gaze locked onto Sansa’s, who flushed and pursed her lips into a thin, rigid line, though she gave a curt nod as she refused to avert her gaze from the usurper.

Well, technically she could suppose that the boy’s father, Lord Roose Bolton, was the one who had overtaken her home and family’s castle back in Winterfell, and was now serving as acting Warden of the North, though it mattered not who was here in front of her.

“I come bringing good tidings of the North. The North Remembers, Lady Stark, and I wish to present to you my wedding gift.” Ramsay Bolton, that Bastard, offered Sansa what was supposed to be a charming, dazzling smile, though the cold look reflected on his face in the man’s icy-blue eyes gave her the shudder, and Reek could see the girl hoped that the look of disgust in her cobalt blue eyes was not evident, though Sansa could not stop the tensing of her limbs or the involuntary scrunching of her nose in utter disgust.

Ramsay Bolton was a bastard who seemed to have no sense of humanity, his heart made of stone, the way it was rumored that he brutally flayed his victims, drenched in their crimson, garish blood. He wore it as war paint, the stories claimed, if the rumors Sansa had heard during her time in King’s Landing were true. Sansa swallowed nervously. Even Reek was certain he would never forget the evil glint in his beady glacier orbs. How this man—this bastard, this Bolton—had smelled of blood, the thick coppery tang coming to rest upon her tongue as she felt her lips part slightly as she mumbled a formal thank you.

Reek knew this of Master to be true, and he hoped that if anyone were to attempt a cous on Master’s life one day, that they would aim for his head, because he did not have a heart. Reek stifled a low growl that threatened to escape from the back of his throat as he realized he did not like the almost hungry way in which he was eyeing Sansa Stark.

Neither, apparently, did the girl’s lord husband. The Demon Monkey noticed it and the dwarf’s dark eyes flashed angrily, almost cerulean in color as he glowered at Ramsay.

Reek drew in another bated breath and held it, wishing that he could disappear. A muscle twitched involuntarily at the corner of his right eye; Reek's mouth forming a rigid grimace. With his arms folded tightly across his slender chest, he tapped his foot furiously and all the while stared out into the mess hall, remaining shrouded in shadow behind the precious pillar that was large and wide enough to conceal Reek's form. Cold sweat glistened on his furrowed brow at the thought of being forced to meet Lady Sansa's gaze.

With his hands clasped tightly in front of his stomach, poor Reek the Freak constantly fiddled with his knuckles, weaving his fingers in and out of each other. Joffrey seated at the other side of the table spoke up, startling poor Reek out of his inner musings.

“I do believe it is time for the bedding ceremony, wouldn’t you say, Lady Sansa?” The King’s voice slurred slightly in his inflections, indicating to Reek and anybody else that would listen that he was quite inebriated. Perhaps even more so than Lord Tyrion.

“There will be no bedding ceremony.” Lord Tyrion’s voice was quiet and soft, though there was no mistaking the hardened edges creeping their way into his tones.

_He’s losing his patience with this fucking madman_ , Reek thought wildly, eyes wide opened, feeling like he could see everything all at once. He did not dare to even breathe.

“There will be if your king commands it,” growled King Joffrey, scoffing and rolling his eyes, turning towards his mother’s ladies-in waiting. “Ladies, attend to my uncle, he’s not at all heavy,” he joked. “Get rid of my Uncle’s wife’s gown, she won’t be needing it any longer. Take them to their bedchambers, it is high past time for the traditional ceremony to commence, everyone,” he drawled lazily, and was immediately interrupted by the sound of the tip of a carving knife being plunged into the oaken table.

The laughter and conversation in the banquet hall died down immediately, and it was as if every head at once swiveled in the direction of the noise towards Lord Tyrion.

“ _No_ , Your Grace.” The word escaped Tyrion as a low, threatening growl. “If you lay a _single_ hand on my wife, then you will be fucking your own bride with a wooden cock. If I find out from Sansa in any way that you have mistreated her while she is here in King’s Landing, then you will die. If you even so much as look at her in a manner that displeases me, you will die. If you make her uncomfortable in any shape or fashion and I find out about it from her or anyone else, then I will not hesitate to cut your cock off and shove it down your throat so that you choke to death on your own fluids. _Do you understand?_ _Nephew_ ,”

Tyrion growled his words through gritted teeth, wrenching the knife out of the table and setting it back on his plate, every once in a while shooting a curious little glance out of the corner of his eyes at Lady Sansa, who had a hand clamped over her mouth, and at first, Reek thought she might be blinking back tears, but then it hit him as though he had been doused in cold water and as she shifted in her seat to turn away, it became evident she was stifling her urge to erupt into a bout of vicious laughter, and Reek swallowed as he glanced over at Master, who had a strange, triumphant look on his eyes and in his eyes.

As if he was immensely enjoying the scene that was playing out before him. Master folded his burly arms across his chest and Reek swallowed nervously at the growing look of rage in Lord Ramsay's eyes. He gulped as Master's gaze diverted and he caught Reek staring at him. Reek averted his gaze, though not before catching the animosity in Master's look. Hatred had brought Reek to Master, and Master had almost killed Reek. Hatred flowed in Reek's veins for his Master, but he knew better than most the futile attempt to escape. 

"I do believe we can dispense with the bedding ceremony, Your Grace," Ramsay called out, no doubt having sensed the little boy-king about to erupt into a temper tantrum as his face reddened in anger. "Perhaps...I might present to the new lord and lady of Casterly Rock my wedding gift, instead?"

The King gave a curt nod, and Reek felt his stomach give a painful lurch and he thought that he might throw up.

The hatred he felt for Master told Reek the Freak that any unborn children Ramsay would be lucky to sire—or unlucky, depending on how you looked at it—should be killed the minute they left the womb and that any offspring Ramsay should produce with Lady Stark were no more than vermin, for that was what Master truly desired.

He had told Reek in confidence of his feelings, knowing full well that Reek would tell no one. How he was of the belief that Sansa Stark of Winterfell did not deserve the Imp, for their marriage was a mockery of the laws of Man, a joke, a laughingstock, and that she would be much better off if she were to wed Ramsay instead, or so Master claimed. The hate Reek felt for Master climbed under his skin and pumped the fear into his veins, switching off any part of his damaged, broken mind that had the good sense to protest what Reek was doing.

Reek swallowed and looked towards Sansa, only realizing that just now she had changed out of her wedding gown and into attire more suitable for an evening in the company of lords and ladies and bannermen and squires.

The Lady of Winterfell was dressed in an elaborate red and gold floor length gown with a slight train in the back, delicate gold brocade embroidering at the dress's scoop neckline and the bodice, gold embroidery on the overly long flared tow sleeves wide with turnbacks. Her soft, ivory shoulders were slightly exposed, her lips carefully tinted a pale pink and her pale skin was flawless. Reek's aesthetic senses came alive, and the man formerly known as Theon was struck by Lady Stark's beauty. This wasn't like when she was a little girl, not at all.

It looked as if though Sansa had been painted in the most subtle and beautiful of colors. The pallet the gods had used to create Sansa Stark literally made poor Reek the Freak shed a tear, not wanting to do this. No one but Lord Ramsay and the King and Reek knew of Ramsay's intentions tonight, how Reek the Freak was to be presented to Sansa and Tyrion as a gift.

At that thought, he felt his stomach give a painful lurch and he could taste the bile that was coating the back of his throat. He swallowed back the vile stuff. Reek turned his head sharply away and clenched his eyes shut, almost ashamed to look upon Sansa's beauty. No longer a little girl was she, but a grown young woman full of potential and promise that was to be quashed the moment Master made his move and had his way from her, once he could manage to get her away from the Imp. A delicate ruby necklace pendant adorned her pale neck, and Reek, for just the briefest of moments, realized that Lady Sansa looked good in the Lannister House colors.

Poor Reek felt like his mind was racing a mile a minute, and he barely felt the pain in the pads of his fingers, not realizing he was scraping his fingernails down the side of the column in anguish, not aware that his fingers had started to bleed.

He could only watch in horror as Ramsay's face stiffened as at first, he took in his target’s appearance, seemingly lost in those blue eyes of hers, and Master’s gaze drifted towards her hair. How Sansa Stark's fiery auburn red hair hung loose, though a delicate waterfall braid had been intricately woven into the back, secured by an adorned ruby clip.

Nowhere on her person did she proudly display the Stark colors. Reek swallowed hard down the lump in his throat.

Though as Ramsay's gaze lingered upon the Imp’s wife, the briefest flickers of anger flickering through his blue orbs at her open act of defiance by choosing to avert Ramsay’s gaze, a fact that, were they back home in Winterfell, would have earned her a swift backhand from Master himself, a spark seemed to ignite in his blue eyes and he smiled, his arm outstretched as he waited for Lady Sansa to be seated by his side.

"My lords and ladies of the north, my…good friends, I have been summoned here tonight by His Grace our King Joffrey Baratheon, because tonight is a night of celebration and good spirits," he bellowed, rising from his chair. "The gods are good to Tyrion Lannister, for they have seen fit to bless the Demon Monkey with a bride, far more a beauty than he deserves, yes?”

Light tittering of nervous laughter flitted through the crowd, though Sansa did not laugh, Reek noticed. If anything, she looked fuming. Ramsay Bolton either did not notice or chose to ignore Sansa’s growing discomfort and folded his hands behind his back and continued his little speech. “It is by the god's good graces and your marriage tonight which will unite the forces of the North and allow the Bolton House and Lannister House to…cooperate. We are all a family, we Northerners. Our blood ties go back a thousand years, so I'd like to drink to your wedding, Lord Tyrion. May yours and Lady Sansa’s happiness spread from Moat Cailin to the last harbor."

Master offered a dazzlingly charming grin, seemingly only meant for Lady Sansa’s eyes, but no one else, which Reek knew did not suit her lord husband’s mood. If anything, the little Imp looked like he would quite like to strangle Master, and Reek found himself wishing that were the case. He shook his head to rid his mind of his dark thoughts, for wishing would do him no good in his situation here in the moment.

A low murmuring of cheers spread throughout the mess hall. "To your wedding," the crowd echoed in unison as one and lifted up their goblets and cups as one. Lady Sansa blushed, continuing to keep her gaze averted downward as she slowly inched her chair closer and closer towards Tyrion’s, as though seeking some form of protection from the dwarf.

Reek furrowed his brow into a frown and bit his bottom lip as the feast commenced. Laid on the long oak table was an amount of food that on any other day would be expected to last several more. At the sight of the luscious delicacies, Reek's mouth watered. There were pheasants and goose, a bowl of roasted root vegetables, sauces with garden herbs, and best of all, there were fresh tomatoes.

A handsome fish dish had followed that, wherein the servants bustling in between the various doors of the mess hall carried silver platters and set in front of the lords and ladies fleshy pink strips of trout, garnished with dashing’s of green herbs that neither Lord Tyrion nor Sansa seemed to know, but liked the taste of. The fish course was supplemented by a side plate of what appeared to be oysters, or maybe mussels from the sea. Their black shells lay open, the beige insides spilling out—sickening and yet strangely enticing.

Reek had never eaten them before, but he'd heard others complain of them before, how they felt horrible on your tongue, slippery and nasty, but they were rumored to taste pleasantly of the ocean without the overwhelming aroma of fish. After the seafood delicacies had been cleared away, the servants had returned from the kitchens with the main course. A full spit roasted pig, its skin a sizzling, mouth-watering golden brown, jaws prized around a forest green apple. The two servants had harmonized their heavy breathing with the screeching wheels of the car as they'd pushed the big to be sat in front of Lord Tywin and King Joffrey.

Cuts of the pork had been served with a refreshing apple sauce, easing the perfectly cooked meat down. It had been accompanied by potatoes that were diced up in a bowl with carrots, mushrooms, topped off with a healthy dash of pepper that stung the throat in the most pleasurable way. Reek's mouth watered.

Then after the pork had come the desserts, the servants placing a slice of a cherry torte on the table in front of the Lannister’s and their guests.

The pastry had been light, both in texture and color, with a thick dark brown crust, all of which contrasted with the beautiful cherry red sauce that poured out of it. The cooks had really outdone herself tonight. The torte was topped by a thin layer of icing sugar as white as pure snow, but sharp as salt. Just as the dessert bowls were being cleared away, Reek felt the tension in his shoulders momentarily leave his body.

Maybe…maybe Master had forgotten about poor Reek and—

"More wine, please," came the King’s unmistakable, curt, commanding tone, and with a single, cold glower from Master, Reek knew his time had come, as Bolton gave a swift nod and a light wag of his finger for Reek to step out of the shadows and into the light of the banquet hall, to come close to where he stood. Reek inwardly flinched, swallowing, feeling his Adams apple throb against his throat.

Suddenly, it felt very warm in this bloody hall, and he wished that a hole beneath his boots would open up and swallow him whole and not let him re-emerge until Ramsay was dead. Reek cringed, turning his head sharply away and keeping his gaze downcast as he shuffled forward, the flagon of Dornish wine in hand. He heard Sansa Stark's sharp intake of breath and he could not help but lift his gaze to look. Reek had never seen Lady Stark look this way, her blue eyes had a deadness, a horrible, empty stillness, like a shadow.

The girl who laughed often, the one who could be almost everyone's friend had developed a cold, bitter hardness. It was as if Reek could read everything Sansa Stark blamed Theon Greyjoy for in one extended glare and forgiveness for poor Reek was no longer an option. Perhaps if he'd saved her, got to her faster, things would have been different between them, if only he could save her brothers and her friends, but…no.

_No friends for Reek the Freak,_ he thought, clenching his teeth in anguish as he poured more wine into Tyrion and Sansa's goblets, averting their gazes, though Sansa Stark’s horrified stare felt hotter than any fire that a Dragon could flame, and his cheeks burned in embarrassment.

"Does it feel strange to be reunited after all this time? Fitting place for it, wouldn't you say, Sansa?" Ramsay gushed, seeming to forget his place and coming to stand behind Sansa Stark’s chair, putting his hand over top of hers and giving it a firm squeeze. Reek noted how Sansa flinched at the harshness of the gesture but did not pull her hand away, and false sympathy dripped from his voice like poisoned honey. Lord Tyrion shot the youngest Bolton lord, that Bastard, a venomous glower and curled his hand around a knife. Reek swallowed hard past the lump in his throat and moved to stand away from Sansa Stark. "I like to imagine that the last time you spoke was something similar to this fashion, which really, isn't much talking at all," he chirped jovially, sounding childish. "Are you still angry with him for what he did, milady? You can be truthful now."

Sansa had seemed to have lost the power of speech, for her lips parted slightly in shock and what little color was left in her cheeks fled.

"Don't worry," Ramsay Bolton crooned, his grip upon Tyion's wife's hand tightening even further, and Sansa let out a muffled whimper of pain though she made no move to remove her hand, not wishing to make a scene. "The North remembers, Sansa. I punished him for it, for what he did," he added, raising his goblet to his lips and drinking heavily, studying Reek brooding in the corner of the mess hall, trying to ignore the uncomfortable silence and the hushed whispers among the other guests, who were conversing among themselves in disgusted tones. "He's not Iron Born anymore. Not Theon Greyjoy, anymore. He's a new man!" he cried, the grin on his lips widening and stretching even further, a gesture that gave Reek the chills. "A new person, milady."

Reek turned his back, grinding his teeth and bowing his head in submission, wishing that the gods would just kill him now and end his torment. _To die would be a mercy…anything but_ this, he thought.

"Aren't you, Reek?" Ramsay called out, propping his elbows up on the table and resting his chin in his hands, having found a spare chair to perch himself in between Lord Tyrion and Lady Sansa, much like a girl would do whenever she was engaged in a particularly juicy bit of gossip. "Hmm?"

"Y—yes, Master," Reek whispered, turning back around.

"That's his new name, milady. Reek. It suits him better, I think."

Sansa pursed her lips into a thin line and violently withdrew her hand from Ramsay's grasp, knitting her brows together in a deep frown. She winced, gingerly rubbing her fingers where Ramsay had grabbed her roughly. Sansa's hand would have markings on it for a few days, at best. "Why are you doing this to him?" she demanded, her voice terse.

Ramsay flashed his latest obsession a charming white smile, looking more and more amused the longer this little spectacle dragged on. "Because Reek has something to say to you, Lady Sansa. Don't you, my dear Reek?"

"Y—yes, M-Master, I do," Reek whispered, his voice hoarse, eyes still downcast at the floor. He glanced towards Lord Tywin and Lady Olenna, who, if he wasn't mistaken, at least gleaned sympathetic glances, though given how far this encounter had progressed, there was no point in stopping it any further. It was too far gone already as it happened.

Reek swallowed as Ramsay wagged a finger at him, biding him step forward. He clenched and rooted his jaw and stepped forward, his resolve faltering with every step as he refused to avert his gaze from Master, who had moved to stand next to the King, his arms folded across his chest and was looking strangely smug.

"An apology?" encouraged Ramsay, raising his voice an octave, sounding as though he were conversing with a twelve-year-old boy instead of a fully grown man.

When Reek still did not respond, Ramsay sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "Apologize to Lady Sansa for what you did," he growled lowly. "Apologize to Lady Sansa for murdering her two brothers, Reek."

Reek tried to speak, but all that came out was a strangled attempt at speech. Finally, he found his voice. "I—I'm sorry," he croaked hoarsely. He had hoped that would suffice and be good enough, but judging by the devilish glint in Master's ice-cold blue eyes, Reek knew it wasn't.

" _Look_ at her, Reek," Ramsay commanded, his voice almost a lazy drawl as he swiveled his head to look at Lady Sansa's impassive expression. "An apology doesn't mean anything if you're not looking the person in the eye."

Reek stiffened, feeling the muscles in his back and shoulders tense, and a muscle in his jaw twitched as he dared to lift his gaze to meet Lady Sansa's. "I—I'm sorry," he whispered. "F-for…killing your brothers."

Sansa gave the tiniest of nods. If the tension in the room would have been a color, the air would have been scarlet blood-red, thick, and garish in the uncomfortable tension. Reek drew in a breath and held it, waiting.

Reek could feel the fear in his chest waiting to take over as he let out a slow controlled breath and attempted to loosen his body movements. To his relief, and he could feel the beginnings of tears well in the corners of his eyes as Master broke into a wide grin, satisfied with Reek's response.

"There!" Ramsay laughed. "Over and done with. Doesn't everyone feel better, I know I do. Reek is your wedding gift, milady. Might I present to you the gift of revenge, vengeance, call it what you will. I give you Reek on the eve of your wedding, Lady Sansa, and milord Tyrion. King Joffrey commanded that I present Reek to you as his wedding gift, milady. He is yours to do with whatever you see fit, to punish him for his crimes how you will, though I recommend giving the boy a good long hot bath first before going anywhere _near_ him. You—"

But Ramsay was cut off mid-sentence as Sansa bolted from her chair, a muscle in her jaw twitching. Her hands were shaking, and her teeth bared in anger. She angrily tossed her auburn hair over her shoulders and drew her hand up. For a second, Reek wondered what was about to happen, and he let out a muffled yelp as she turned her wrath towards the golden-haired King Joffrey, who wore a similar expression of smugness that mirrored Reeks’ Master’s.

She hefted her arm back as far as she could and curled her hand into a fist and punched her King square in the nose. Sansa had never punched anyone before, so she was incredibly surprised at the pain that blazed up her arm as her fist connected with his jaw.

When the black dots seemed to quit covering King Joffrey’s vision, Sansa had bolted from her chair, brushing her hands on the skirts of her gown and stormed out of the mess hall, slamming the doors behind her so hard that they rattled on their hinges, Lord Tyrion shooting both the King and Reek’s master a look of daggers as he followed after his lady wife, slamming the doors behind him with perhaps even greater force than Sansa just had. An uncomfortable tittering of the wedding guests emerged as everyone sat in a stunned silence, not sure what to make of what had just happened. Reek cowered in the corner.

All eyes in the mess hall were fixated upon the doorway as King Joffrey and Master bolted from his chair and made to follow Lady Sansa and Lord Tyrion as they exited. Sansa Stark vacated the premises without so much as a second glance backwards as all eyes stared at Sansa, unable to believe what she had done.


	6. Cersei

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cersei, you evil, evil bitch, you.... I think this was by far one of the more fun chapters I've written for the story, and....well, I won't spoil anything. Read on, my lovelies! :)

**Cersei**

Cersei rested her head in her hands. What a night. White knuckled from clutching onto her wine goblet too hard, and gritted teeth from the effort to remain silent, her rigid form exuded an animosity that was like poison—burning, slicing, and potent. Her face was white with suppressed rage as she listened to Joffrey's screams. Wrapping her long fingers around her golden goblet, Cersei felt her heat leach into the drink. Wine. Sweet, sweet wine. The elixir of her life.

She raised the cup to her lips to sip, feeling the keen burn on her tongue and throat as the alcohol poured down her throat—a burn that used to make her recoil as a girl. Yet now it was a feeling she longed for right from the moment she awoke to the moment she collapsed on her pillow to lose herself to a hopefully dreamless slumber. She furrowed her brows into a frown and rested the goblet on the railing of the balcony, having followed the sound of her young son's shrill screams. Cersei heaved a heavy sigh that escaped her lips as more of a groan and rested her head in her left hand, still mesmerized by the fluid swirling in her cup.

She drank in silence, hoping that the answer to her little problem that was currently that of Sansa Stark lay at the bottom of this precious golden cup. Cersei Lannister in the moment looked like a woman who had given up on her life meaning anything as she listened to the little king's rants and screams as he clutched at his red and bleeding nose.

If you were to ask Cersei in private, she would deny it, of course, though she, along with Tyrion and Lord Tywin, were among the first to admit internally that Joffrey deserved every bit the punch the Stark girl had thrown at him.

Presenting Theon Greyjoy like that to her brother's bride at the wedding feast was an incredibly foolish and childish thing to do, and even Cersei was not a fool. Thanks to Lord Varys and Baelish, the entire kingdom would know what had happened at Lord Tyrion and Lady Sansa's wedding feast, and yet another thing to cause the Lannister family name shame.

"The—the bitch can't insult me!" bellowed King Joffrey, his face reddening maddeningly as he paced in agitated footfalls on the balcony, seizing tufts of his blonde hair and tugging on it. Her son looked positively livid and beside himself.

"She can and she did."

Cersei blinked, startled, as Father's voice cut through the echoing screams and hollers of Joffrey. Lord Tywin stepped from the shadows; his hands folded behind his back as he came to stand alongside Cersei.

Lord Tywin snorted and watched with the smallest inklings of amusement as his grandson restlessly paced the cold stone floor of the balcony's terrace, his footfalls sounding more and more agitated the long Joffrey kept up this behavior.

The boy's grandfather sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger and heaved a haggard sounding sigh, as if he were fighting off a splitting headache, and for all Cersei knew, Father was, given the chaos.

The wedding feast had continued on shortly after that little spectacle, though Cersei highly doubted her brother and his new wife would be returning.

Cersei's hands shook slightly as she clutched the wine goblet in her hands, her eyes swiveling towards the back of her head in a distressed sense of a headache. She took a long swig of the dark substance that affected her mind.

She let out a content little sigh as the walls around her seemed to shift and morph into something unrecognizable, changing figure in the blink of an eye.

Her breaths were the underlying cause of the smell that entered her nostrils, and her mouth was sore from the amount of alcohol that Cersei poured down her throat. She cleared her throat as she turned towards her son and father, both men turned to look at Cersei expectantly and waited for the boy's mother to speak.

"What you did was foolish," Cersei scolded, her voice cracking and wavering slightly as she fought back a cough, also a side effect of the red wine.

His mother watched as the boy-king's face blanched and turned an even deeper shade of red. Cersei inwardly screamed in frustration as the very laughter evaporated from Joffrey's eyes. His customary warmth gone faster than summer rain in August.

Indeed, even his focus was somewhere at a spot on the wall behind Lord Tywin's head, as if Cersei had become invisible to Joffrey or he could not bear to look his mother in the eyes at all. She had crossed some invisible line, offended the King's delicate sensibilities. Cersei had seen Joffrey do this to others before, but as his mother, she had thought their bond immune.

"What did you say?" Joffrey demanded, sounding breathless as he stared incredulously at the woman who had birthed and raised him. When his mother did not immediately reply, he grew even angrier, if such a thing was possible.

"Your Grace—" Lord Tywin started to say, though Joffrey cut him off.

" **Mother**. **What. Did. You.** **SAY**?" he growled through gritted teeth, closing off the gap of space between his mother and himself. Now, unexpectedly, Cersei's blood drained and her heart hammered erratically within the confines of her chest. Cersei never worried about her son when his anger came as fire seeds.

For that burnt bright and fast, but _this_ …this was cold, and she found herself fearful of the boy's ice, which coated him like a protective permafrost, as if he had come from north of the Wall, it had saved Joffrey from the tormenting troubles of the truth of his youth, and his true parentage, but now, the same method could isolate the king from his family, his friends. _If he even has any_ , Cersei thought darkly and wildly shook her head to clear her mind and vision.

"Apologies, my son," Cersei murmured, lowering her wine goblet to rest upon the balcony terrace's railing and lowering her head in a show of false submission. "I only meant that…perhaps you could have taken the time during the feast to talk to your bride-to-be instead, get to know her and continue to improve our family's relations with the Tyrells. The Stark girl is of no longer your concern now that she is wed to your uncle and Ned Stark has been removed from the equation. You should have no ties to wish to converse with the Stark girl no more, my son. You have other duties expected of you."

There. She'd said her piece. But getting him to listen, however, another manner entirely.

It was Tywin, however, who refused to back down from his stance. He rolled his eyes and folded his arms across his chest.

"If your mother will not voice her true opinions, then _I_ will," he snapped, startling both Joffrey and Cersei out of the undeniably tense moment.

His voice, while calm and resolute, was ice-cold, no warmth within his tones which he usually reserved for Tommen and Myrcella, who he tended to have a soft spot for, considering his other two grandchildren were nothing like the wretched little boy in front of him.

"Consider this a moment to be counseled, Your Grace. You brought this upon yourself, you know. Insulting the girl and her husband by parading that—that _thing_ to them during the festivities," he sneered, crinkling his nose in disgust. "You were not thinking this through and as a result, you have brought shame and embarrassment upon the Lannister House, King," he spat, turning away from King Joffrey.

When he turned back around, even Cersei felt herself flinch, though Father's wrath was not directed at her, it permeated her thoughts. Tywin's lethal stare towards his grandson felt painful and piercing, as if his glare were tearing her heart apart. His cobalt blue eyes flashed with indignance and anger, much like lightning on a pitch black night, his face smoldering under his stony expression. Cersei could have sworn by the gods and Light of the Seven that she heard Joffrey swallow and let out a tiny, muffled whimper as Tywin calmly strode towards his grandson, and now had him backed against the terrace wall.

"Shame upon our House is something that your lord Uncle is quite familiar with. However, as King, I would have expected better of you, Your Grace. You are lucky that I do not summon that Bolton boy in here to flay you until there's no skin left on your bones for the horrible disgrace and shame you have brought upon our house this evening, and it has suffered much these last few years, sire. It is no wonder the Stark girl fled from the feast—from _you_ —in disgust," he sighed. "As a result of your and the Bolton boy's actions, you have shamed her, yourself, and our name in the act and therefore, you have just stepped across a nonnegotiable line for which you, as _King_ , must accept responsibility for your actions. It is expected of you."

The low warning growl escaped from Tywin's throat before he could stop it, and Cersei knew there was a large part of the Hand of the King that felt a grim satisfaction in watching his grandson's face drain of color and beads of sweat began to form on his brow, though Cersei knew it was not so much threats of his grandfather's that were on his mind, but the mere mention of the Bastard of Bolton was enough to send a chill down even _his_ spine.

Tywin was, perhaps the only soul in King's Landing that Joffrey even harbored an inkling of fear and caution towards, and as such, was the only one who could get away with speaking such words to their King. The other, it should be noted, that Joffrey harbored fear towards, was Ramsay Bolton. "I gave you an opportunity, Your Grace, that you have squandered and made a fool of yourself. You will seek out your uncle and Sansa and apologize to them, beg their forgiveness, that you are at Lady Stark's mercy and will make amends to her."

Joffrey opened his mouth to vehemently protest, but Tywin shot his grandson a look that would have wilted a fully bloomed flower and the king mutely nodded and stormed off, the boy's heels of his boots clacking loudly.

Lord Tywin scoffed and rolled his head, shaking his head in disgust and disapproval as he silently nodded in acknowledgement to his daughter before heading back to attend the remainder of the wedding feast, as was expected.

Cersei exhaled a shaking breath through her nose, not even realizing she'd been waiting with bated breath, fully preparing herself for yet another outburst.

The king's mother let out a sigh and dragged a chair over towards the edge of the balcony's terrace to watch the ocean and the moonlight. The moonlight splashed down its watery white-silver glow onto the Red Keep and King's Landing, bathing them, illuminating them.

And in the distance, the trees were silhouetted against the deep velvety sky. The moonlight was a diffuse ocean above them, lessening the inky blackness of the night, but not so bright as to dull the stars that speckled and glittered in the heavens above.

A dull clap reached her ears, startling her at first. Cersei did not even have to turn around to know whom it was as they neared, for she recognized the man's laugh, low and slow, but deadly and it sent a chill down her spine. Cersei tended to avoid this family at any cost, seeking this man's attentions only if the situation presented itself, and given the circumstances and the nature of things, Cersei deemed this matter of great importance, hence why she was regarding her distinguished guest of honor currently dragging a chair across the balcony's terrace to sit opposite next to Cersei, surveying the king's mother with a look of sardonic amusement in his listless blue eyes over the rim of his own goblet of wine.

Though this was not the worst part of the night, Cersei surmised. No. What was even worse, she supposed, was the defiant way how the strange little redhead had dared to meet Cersei's gaze and had looked upon the entire Lannister family, save for Tyrion, with a look of scorn, and hers was not one of fear or trepidation.

It was in those bewitching cobalt eyes of hers, and Cersei realized during the wedding ceremony, how the She-Wolf had commanded control during the presenting of the Cloak of Protection, how she had practically kicked aside the step ladder that Joffrey had purposely placed in front of his uncle as a show of humiliation, and then when she had refused Joffrey's arm, leaving the boy standing in the middle of aisle, and then more recently, by punching the boy just short of breaking his nose, that Cersei knew she had a very serious problem on her hands. Sansa Stark was going to become a problem for Cersei, not only for her, but for the king as well.

She could not— _would not_ —allow Joffrey's mind to become even more distracted than it already was, simply by having her presence near him. She could not understand it, why the Stark bitch was getting under her son's skin so much. The traitor Ned Stark had been dealt with, and yet…

He obsessed over the girl, seeking every opportunity available to him to humiliate the bitch even further, when his focus needed to be on wooing Margaery Tyrell. These conflicting thoughts of what to do over the Stark bitch's presence in her life caused Cersei to receive virtually no sleep the last few nights.

So now, here she was, in her sleeplessness, Cersei was drunk on silence, not just the wine. For hours, it had seeped into her pores, dowsing her mind in its thick toxicity. The usefulness of her thoughts left Cersei long ago, leaving these fatigued thoughts and hallucinations of the girl lingering in his mind. Cersei wanted so very much not to think at all, wanting instead to be absorbed into the darkness that the night had promised her mere hours ago.

Cersei wanted to wake, refreshed to streaming white daylight, unaware of the hours between now and then. Nevertheless, what she wanted was for naught, and the idiocy continued to get worse as she now found herself staring at the Warden's vicious bastard son, acting Lord of the North, and of Winterfell, that stronghold. And personal ally to Joffrey, hence why Cersei had summoned Ramsay Bolton to Tyrion's wedding.

Ramsay Bolton, that Skinflayer, murmured something, and Cersei closed her eyes. His voice had a slowness, as if the man had all the time in the world to converse with Cersei, as if she really mattered to him. Cersei supposed she ought to feel flattered, though in actuality, it was just strictly a matter of business.

The people of Winterfell and the North feared the Bolton family name, particularly Ramsay's, for it was rumored the boy only a few years older than Tyrion's new little wife could be quite a savage when it came to torturing people.

The small-folk of the North would always need a personal battle, such as their own vanity in thinking that they actually mattered, an enemy within their kingdom, such as competing with one another for survival, and the fear of an external enemy, one they assumed that they needed the Bolton family to fend off.

Cersei snorted and resisted the great urge to roll her eyes at the young bastard currently seated across from her, one of his legs crossed over the other and as her eyes dared to meet his, after an awkward moment of silence, each just watching the other, the corner of his mouth twitched into his cheek. It transformed Bolton from a stranger, cold and listless, to someone Cersei wished she knew better. Just a smirk.

And that was how it started. The beginning of a beautiful partnership. That little rise in the corner of Ramsay's mouth, he was oblivious to combined with the cold detachment in his eyes that Cersei knew would seal the Stark bitch's fate.

Yet…in all this nobility, this restless spirit of Bolton's, deep down, was one of a warrior's heart, one who would make any sacrifice necessary if it benefited him, to guard whatever it was that he treasured, pay any price that was asked, and Cersei would benefit from this little rendezvous too to discuss their agreement.

Assuming of course, that Lord Roose Bolton's son agreed to Cersei's terms and conditions, of which she knew that he would, for what she offered, was offering the boy, was far too delicious for the Bastard, this Skinflayer, to pass up.

Ramsay coughed once to clear his throat, and Cersei blinked, startled out of the inner musings of her mind, which still felt like it was reeling from the emotional blow dealt to King Joffrey by Sansa Stark when she had punched him.

It had been a good hit. Cersei had seen the blood welling in her son's mouth and when the boy had turned his head off to the side to spit, Cersei thought Joffrey was incredibly lucky not to have missed a tooth. Someone, somewhere along the line, had taught the Stark bitch to throw a punch. Cersei frowned.

"I am…truly surprised and humbled, Your Grace, that you kept our appointment," Ramsay Bolton began, traces of hesitation laced throughout his tones, his voice sounding gruffer and coarser than in times previous whenever Cersei had corresponded with the Bolton Family, which was admittedly little.

Well. That was about to change, was it not? Cersei knitted her brows together and quirked them at Bolton, wondering how in the seven hells it was that Ramsay could sound so amused, and such a suspicion was confirmed when the Bastard smirked at her again over the rim of his goblet, before raising the cup to his lips, and drank heavily. Cersei's frown deepened, not at all amused by this.

From one noble to another, how dare this man think that Cersei was not a woman of her word? She was, after all, a Lannister, and Lannisters always sent their regards and paid their debts. Her family upheld the law to the highest degree, herself being the prime example as the King's mother.

Cersei smiled, albeit without showing her teach, before reaching down at her feet for the tin flagon of wine and pouring herself another goblet. This was normally a job for one of her handmaidens, but this was a conversation she needed to have alone.

"What business could Her Highness have with the likes of me? What can I do for you this evening, milady? Did Lady Stark like her gift?" drawled Ramsay lazily as he folded his surprisingly gentle-looking and soft hands across his middle and sat back in his chair. Cersei stared at them a moment, fully expecting them to be calloused and rough, if the rumors of what the boy got up to in the dungeons of Winterfell were true, but that did not appear to be the case here.

Cersei continued to stare at the young boy's hands. He could not have been older than twenty and two, but a few years older than Sansa Stark, and admittedly, a sight better looking than the Imp, and a better match for the girl.

The ruby and emerald rings that rested upon two of his fingers of his right hand glinted in the dim light, their only source of light coming from the moon.

Cersei gazed at Ramsay Bolton, and even after the last few evenings spent suffering the egotistical man's company during his stay here in King's Landing for Lord Tyrion's wedding, the boiling within her blood still ensued and ran through her veins, though not quite as potent as years prior, dealing with Roose.

Tonight, Roose Bolton's son looked especially regal, fully dressed in a black leather overcoat that ran down to past his knees, a crimson long sleeved undershirt within, his dark hair slicked back with some form of oil to give it a healthy sheen, and his black leather boots shone even in the dim light of night.

He had tousled dark brown hair, which was thick and lustrous. His eyes were a mesmerizing deep ocean blue, flecks of silvery light throughout. His face was strong and defined, his features molded from granite. He had dark eyebrows, which sloped downwards in a serious expression. His usually playful smile had drawn into a hard line across his face. His perfect lips ripe for Sansa to kiss them.

Yes. There was no point in attempting to deny it. Ramsay Bolton, this Bastard, this Skinflayer, had a face that looked as though the gods themselves had crafted him to be their masterpiece. A beautiful face. Well defined, with a sharp jaw and angular cheekbones. The complexion of his skin going well with his ocean-like eyes. He looked down for a moment, pouring himself a drink and bringing the alcohol to his lips. The burning sensation pouring down his throat, creating a warm feeling deep inside of his stomach.

"Her gift admittedly was something of a shock to her, I daresay," Cersei heard herself say, to which her quip earned a snort from Bolton. "I think that, in time, she will come to see your view on him, milord. I have no doubt the Greyjoy boy will be of use. You are the stronghold of the Bolton family name, Ramsay," Cersei complimented. She repressed her urge to snort as she could practically feel the young boy blink and stun at the Queen's compliments, though she suspected that, as the Warden's son, the boy was quite used to flattery from members of staff, for he hid his surprise well and perfected a look of passive indifference. "You and your progeny will rule the North for a thousand years, or so I have been told. Assuming that you can find yourself a lovely little bride to marry, Bastard."

Now it was Cersei's turn to smirk as the boy's face flushed and became devoid of color, though the man made no comment. "Fear not, for I believe that there is a woman of the highest pedigree. There is but one…minor little snag."

"Your son promised me Sansa Stark in exchange for the 'borrowing' of my pet Reek as her wedding gift. I am to take her on the morrow. That was his deal."

Cersei felt her lips part open slightly in shock as she bristled at the interruption, though she let it go for now, being that the Bastard of Bolton was perhaps the only one alive whom she could trust in helping her deal with Sansa.

Ramsay Bolton continued speaking, either oblivious to Cersei's growing annoyance, or chose to ignore it, but considering how the man was rumored to be highly intelligent, perhaps even more so than her vicious bastard of a brother himself, she let it go and allowed him to say his piece. "There are…always problems when it comes to women, Your Highness, but I must confess that I am a man who enjoys pretty faces, and if the rumors of this little mouse in question are true, then I should be delighted for an opportunity to meet my future wife," he chuckled darkly, his blue eyes glinting like pinpricks, which for a moment, made Cersei feel greatly uncomfortable.

She swallowed another sip of wine, relishing the burning as the alcohol traveled down her throat and created a warm feeling deep in the pit of her stomach. "Indeed." Cersei muttered through gritted teeth as her inquisitive eyes carefully surveyed Ramsay Bolton as she shifted her own goblet of wine in her hands, the pad of her fingertips trailing the condensation as it formed outside the glass.

"I have not yet spoken to my brother, given that it is his wedding night, but I have seen the way he looks at the Stark girl over these last few weeks. It is evident that this bitch is bewitching him, and if the rumors of her family are true, it is said that she possesses the ability to control dark magic, that which comes from the godswoods of Winterfell," Cersei breathed, her eyes widening.

Ramsay's lips pursed into a thin line, his brows knitting together in quandary as he slammed his cup down onto the balcony terrace's railing.

"Slanderous, stupid peasant lies," he retorted hotly. "They are not to be believed, you should not breathe further lies into vicious peasant rumors, milady. I have been in the very woods that you speak of, and there is nothing there."

Ramsay Bolton fell silent and waited for Cersei to speak. When she made no comment, he laced his fingers together and leaned forward in his chair, his gaze unabashed and unwavering. Cersei smirked and studied the boy over the rim of her cup. "Bastard, you have been at that goblet of wine since upon agreeing to meet with me this night, and it is as though like the goblet itself has its lips against yours. You are troubled, Bolton, and do not even think of attempting to lie to me. Speak the truth."

Bolton's frown deepened, as did the lines upon his otherwise smooth forehead, and he crossed one leg over the other, keeping his arms folded across his chest, and huffed in frustration.

"Your…warning, in your letters to me that you gave, about the Stark girl. What did you call her? Ah. Yes. A 'thorn in your side,'" he grinned, offering Cersei a grin that looked more wolfish and predatory than genuine. "When you summoned me here to meet with you, did not exactly go according to your plan, for your brother's wife has not exactly heeded your words." It was a moment before Ramsay spoke again, and in the man's arrogant triumph, he smirked.

Just a small pouting of the lips, a narrowing of his brilliant cobalt blue eyes, and a tilting of his chiseled head. It was so subtle, yet so effective. It was even _more_ infuriating for Cersei, who caught a glimpse of it after making the foolish mistake of trusting Lord Roose's bastard.

"What kind of woman would seek the company of a hideous malformed wretch such as your brother, when she could easily have the company of someone such as myself. What in seven hells does the girl see in a monster such as that? It is beyond my ability to comprehend why she married the creature," growled Ramsay, the briefest flickers of rage darting through the boy's eyes, that startled Cersei, if she were being honest with herself, but just as quickly as it had come, it was gone.

Cersei heaved a haggard sigh, wearily rubbing her temples. By the Gods, she was getting a splitting migraine and wished nothing more than for this little rendezvous of theirs to be over, but they had yet to get to the heart of the matter of their urgent conversation here. "I believe the Stark cunt possesses the arts of black magic," she answered simply in a tone that was almost matter-of-factly. "It is the only explanation that I can come to that makes any modicum of sense. Look at how easily she has swayed my brother, he who calls himself the 'god of tits and wine.'"

She snorted and almost choked on her wine. "He has not gone near a brothel _once_ since Father announced his engagement to the Stark girl. The Imp looks at the Stark bitch like no other woman exists. That entire family of Wolves is touched in the head, Bolton, and the only reason this girl is not dead yet is due to her recent marriage to my lord brother, and were the girl to go missing mere days after her wedding, it would surely arouse suspicion in the North. But…nevertheless, she cannot remain here in King's Landing, for her poisonous mind and looks are affecting my son's judgement. I have warned the King to stay away from her, and he does not heed his mother's warnings. Tyrion, on the other hand, I want him to see the world as I see it. Bleeding in a corner and _crying_ ," she hissed, feeling her jaw tighten and lock up in anger. "That accursed monstrous wretch stole away my mother's life the minute he emerged from her womb, and he does not know the true meaning of loss and what it means to be in pain, but by the gods and the Light of the Seven, I aim to make him understand what it's like."

Cersei spat this last part of her sentence as though it were a bitter poison that had settled upon her tongue. "I regret that the girl did not heed my advice and take my words seriously to heart, for if she had, I might have been able to help her. I told her to run away from here, but she would not do it."

Her jaw locked even tighter and she fumed as she recollected how the Stark bitch had gotten a strange, defiant look in her cobalt blue eyes, how they had flashed and hardened, turning almost cerulean in color and the words she had spoken to Cersei, Cersei did not think that she would ever forget. That no.

Her days of running away from her problems were over.

"They say that only death may pay for life." Ramsay spoke up thoughtfully, rubbing the two-day stubble under his chin, his gaze never wavering from Cersei's. "Is that what you would believe, milady? You want him murdered?"

"I want him to suffer," Cersei growled. "Their very union is an abomination, a wretched black putrid stain upon the great Lannister name. My brother does not deserve a wife such as she, nor does he even deserve a whore."

Ramsay nodded in sympathetic understanding, and Cersei watched ss the younger boy's dark, thick brows furrowed into a frown. "I myself am quite surprised and frankly appalled that your misshapen wretch of a brother would take such an interest in such a delectable creature as the last Wolf of the North."

Cersei nodded grimly in agreement with Bolton's statement. How had it ever come to this? The gods had tested her. She was supposed to love Tyrion, the man was her brother, like it or not, but it all vanished like bursting suds of water the day the wretched little Imp emerged from her mother's womb and had stolen her mother's last breaths of air with his first cries of life. His very existence was a mockery to the Lannister family name.

Cersei frowned and found herself in quandary, confused as to whether or not she truly cared for Tyrion or not. She still needed the man to serve a purpose, to be of use to her, yes, that much was true, but Cersei reviled and detested the wretched little bastard just as much as she needed him, and she hated to admit it.

"Regardless, this insufferable and inexcusable behavior of my brother's must be stopped. The girl is bewitching my brother, Bolton, and this is where I seek your help," Cersei sighed after a long silence.

The Bastard grinned, flashing a charming, white smile that for a moment, rendered Cersei's blood to ice in her veins, chilling her insides, for it was a predatory smile, almost animalistic, and the shadow of a wolf darted across his handsome, pale features. These two really _would_ make a much better match.

_Both of them wolves_ , her conscience thought in amusement.

"It almost sounds as if you are about to get to the point, Your Majesty," Ramsay Bolton drawled lazily, swiveling his head slightly to better look Cersei in the eyes, taking note of the darkening, almost purple bags underneath her eyes.

"Things are difficult with the Stark girl," Cersei snapped as she glowered at the handsome blue-eyed Bastard across the balcony. "Sansa Stark is older now. No little girl of six and teen. She is eighteen, an adult. She is no longer so easily swayed by mere threats, which is why I believe that a softer approach, a more _delicate_ touch, a _man's_ touch, is required," she emphasized darkly through gritted teeth. "Which is why that I have summoned you here in my presence, because I know of your current little problem regarding finding an appropriate affianced."

She watched as Ramsay Bolton's forehead became heavily lined as he scowled, his lips pursing into a thin, rigid line. "I cannot fully claim what is rightfully mine until I marry a woman of noble blood. Stark is what I need…Who I want."

Cersei nodded, lifting the rim of her goblet to her lips and drank. This had to be her fourth goblet in the span of an hour, and it was doing nothing to lull her to sleep. "And you shall have her. I deduced as much as that was to be your case, Bastard," she surmised slowly, lost in her own thoughts for a moment before setting her goblet down and shoving the tin flagon of wine away. "It matters not that the Stark bitch married my monstrous brother, but I cannot—will not," she quickly corrected herself as she toyed with a lock of her golden-blonde hair, "allow my song, our King, to become corrupted in this manner by thoughts of her. Even now, she has a hold upon Joffrey's mind, and it is unacceptable. This girl, she can no longer be around my son, nor can she remain in King's Landing."

She huffed in frustration and paused to draw in breath before continuing.

"When Father first held Lord Tyrion in his arms, the day he was born, he's told me and Jaimie several times that he wanted nothing more than to take the cursed demon who had murdered his wife into the sea and let the waves carry him away forever and drown him, sending him back to the Seven Hells, where he belongs, releasing the Lannister family of the stain upon their name and the Imp's wickedness. However, out of the goodness of his heart, something within father compelled him to keep the boy. Perhaps a promise he made to Mother, I don't know, and he raised him as a Lannister. My…brother, is an ill-made wretch, Bolton, an accursed thing, this Demon Monkey, full of envy, lust, low cunning."

Ramsay Bolton's dark eyebrows shot up so far onto his forehead that they almost disappeared into his hairline, though the Bastard made no comment.

"To teach Father humility, the gods condemned Father and the rest of us to watch over Tyrion as he grew into adulthood, but no amount of god fearing from our gods or Man's laws will ever compel us to let that monster breed, Bastard."

Ramsay merely stared across the balcony's terrace at the king's mother coldly, his calculating mind working quickly to put together the pieces of information in his mind, to no doubt arrive at the very conclusion Cersei was about to reach. Cersei, sensing the boy's brain going into overdrive, continued, lest the Bastard of Bolton need any further motivation to carry out their deal.

"I do not believe that what I ask of you will be a challenge for you, for the ladies of Winterfell tend to flock to you, do they not?" Cersei inquired, shaking her head in slight disbelief. Ramsay's lips parted open to retort angrily, but she held up a hand and interjected before Bolton could say his piece. "I don't care how it happens, or what becomes of my lord brother. Take her, take him, them both, I don't care. If you think that Tyrion will be a problem for you, then you may kill him if you wish, or have one of your own soldiers do it for you. Whisper sweet nothings into the girl's ear, seduce her with the promises you don't intend to keep. Riches, jewels, pretty gowns, the promise of seeing that hovel she dares to call a home again," Cersei growled. "Whatever it is that would drive the little redheaded bitch away from King's Landing and out of my son's life. Forever. Do with Stark whatever you like with her. She despises my brother so you will not have to worry about their marriage ever being consummated. Marry the girl, make her your queen at your side up there in the North, impregnate the bitch with your bastard offspring, it doesn't matter to me. The girl is nothing but a constant thorn in my and my son's life, and I want her gone."

"And you, Your Highness? What of you?" Ramsay could not help but to ask, as he sensed that the king's mother was growing tired, that their conversation was nearing its conclusion, as he rose to his feet and fastened his cloak about his shoulders, preparing to take his leave.

"What I am proposing is no easy feat, milord," snarled Cersei, ignoring the younger boy's question, thinking the Bastard needed to mind his own business, instead striding up from her chair and coming over to Lord Roose's bastard son, extending her hand for Ramsay Bolton to take and shake it in agreement. The boy hesitated, but only for a fraction of a second and took her hand.

The Bolton man's cold blue eyes met the woman's steely orbs. "This 'little problem' as you like to call it, shall be dealt with, Your Grace. The girl will trouble your son no longer, Your Honor. I can promise you this. She is mine."

Even Cersei shuddered inwardly at the outrage, jurisdiction and entitlement in the Bastard of Bolton's voice, though she did not bother to hide the victorious half smile that crept its way onto her features at a petty pace. There was no one better suited for a job of this caliber than the man currently standing in front of her. Cersei nodded, wearily rubbing her temples in exasperation as she waved the younger man away, signaling that their conversation had come to an end.

Ramsay Bolton dipped his head in acknowledgement and offered the king's mother a slow, droll smile. "Until we meet again, Your Majesty. Milady…"

Something about the man's tone prompted Cersei to ask of the young handsome future Ward of the North with much potential if he played his cards right a final question. "What of the Imp?" Cersei asked Ramsay curiously. "What will become of my brother?"

Ramsay frowned and fixed Cersei with a glacier-cold stare. "Is that…care that I detect in your voice, Your Majesty? To hear you speak of him treating this delectable creature in such a horrible way by making a mockery of her beauty, that he clearly does not deserve a girl like Stark as his wife, is most upsetting to me. Your lord brother might be smart, Your Highness, but I am smarter. Lord Tyrion may be wise in knowledge and know a great deal many things from books and his teachings, but he is ill informed of the ways of the hunt," he smirked. "And he has never learned to watch his stout little back, which is really quite a shame, for he should soon have a knife there." He smiled at Cersei and departed.

He left Cersei alone in that sweet, blessed silence which she had so desperately been craving since the day began to mull over what her brother's future held now that their plan had been set into motion and there was no stopping it, what her next steps should be. She decided that she no longer gave a damn, as long as the deed was done, and she and her son were left alone in peace.

Cersei believed that Father should have killed the wretch years ago when he'd had the chance and saved himself this unnecessary strife and embarrassment. And now, this girl, this _bitch_ , was interfering in Joffrey's life, and in Tyrion's, implanting in their minds thoughts of lust and distraction, and dare, she even _think_ this next part, the possibility for Tyrion to sire a child.

Cersei shuddered in revolt as a tremor traveled down her spine as she made her way back to her chambers. No. She absolutely could not allow that to happen.

One Imp in this wretched world was more than enough. They did not need two. It was not in the plan of the gods for the girl, nor for Cersei to allow this to happen. She, or should she say, the Skinflayer, would put an end to things before they escalated even further. And as for Sansa Stark, that precious little thing…

Well. If Ramsay had his way with her, then Cersei took that to assume that her precious days within King's Landing were numbered. She could not quell the feeling that Bolton would somehow find a way to escort the child back to Winterfell, where, within those stone walls, it mattered not to Cersei what became of the bitch. As long as she was hundreds of miles away from her son.

Her days in King's Landing with Tyrion were as good as numbered, and her time almost up. Cersei swallowed past the burning lump forming in her throat.

Hatred was all that she had left in regards of her feelings for her second brother. She wanted Tyrion dead, every last inch of him, but first, even more than that, she wanted the accursed little abomination to suffer, and what better way to do that than by taking away the one thing that he claimed to want and cherish?

_Her_. Cersei smirked, her lips tugging upwards as visions of the Stark cunt's death flitted in the forefront of her mind. She wished she could be there to watch his face when her brother's mind would put all of the pieces together as he realized his entire world would crumble before his very eyes. Cersei wanted the Imp to know that his wife was broken, battered, beaten, and dead, before the Bolton boy would slit his throat. What then when both of them were dead?

Cersei did not care what happened next. That was where she finished, for her body had lost its strength long ago when it came to matters of dealing with Tyrion. Her mind shattered and the rest of her followed suit when Mother died.

Without the hatred boiling in her veins, she thought she would die, and there wasn't any part of her that felt anything else but a fierce devotion to her children, and the desire to protect them from harm. Harm like Sansa Stark…

Revenge on her little lord brother was coming. It was coming very soon.

It was as they said. Only death may pay for life, and it was Sansa Stark who would pay for Tyrion murdering their mother with her own life, and when _that_ happened…Cersei's smile widened as she reached the door to her chambers and slammed it shut, collapsing on top of her bed, hair splayed out on either side of her like a fan, intertwining her fingers as she stared at the ceiling of her room.

When that happened, when her vicious bastard brother lost everything, starting with _her_ , oh, sweet, sweet bliss…

Cersei's only wish was that she could be there to watch.


	7. Tyrion

**Tyrion**

The anger from Sansa's eyes showed the scared young woman within, the girl who was taught to obey the commands given to her and starved of the love that she, like him, craved. He could see the pain beneath it and her soul drowning in this persona that his new wife had carved herself to fit into a world of indifference. But he could not help someone like this, not unless the tears came and she realized what was going on, the gravity of the weight of what she had done to the King settled within the confines of her troubled mind. And he could not fight this, and he would not. It was already taking such a toll on him to do so.

The best he could offer her now as her lord husband was a void, to let her put her troubling thoughts into a shadow box until she craved the sunlight again, though now in the moment, all she seemed to want was wine. Well. That much he could supply her with, as much as she wanted.

Bronn had joined them as well, and both men were surprised as she kicked off her shoes and settled cross-legged on the bear skin rug in front of the fireplace of Lord Tyrion's bedchambers. Though more accurately, now, given that they were married, he supposed that it was their room.

Fires of fury and hatred were smoldering in the small cobalt narrowed blue eyes of Sansa's as she numbly accepted yet another drink, her third of the night and perhaps the most Tyrion had ever seen her indulge in, as she no doubt was weighing the pros and cons in her mind of what she had done to King Joffrey Baratheon back in the banquet hall.

Bronn was leaning against the wall, his back resting against the frame and his arms folded across his chest, looking like he wanted to fight off his desire to laugh as he regarded the Imp's little redheaded bride.

"Given we've been locked up in here about an hour, and the shouting has yet to stop, I think it best that we stay put for the evening. There's a Bravosi knife game I could teach the two of you if you're bored," Bronn offered after a long silence, casting a weary glance over his shoulder at the locked door, as though Bronn expected the temperamental king to burst through the door and come after Tyrion's bride. "I think it wise if neither of us leave these chambers for the remainder of the eve."

"Does it involve the potential for losing fingers?" Tyrion scowled.

"Not if you win," chortled Bronn, which earned an eye roll and a light smile from Sansa as she sipped on her wine, scrunching her nose, and pulling a face. "I must commend you, milady, for hitting the little king back there. The boy's a vicious cunt and someone needs to put him in his place, or he'll go the way of the Mad King if the prick isn't careful."

"He deserved it," Sansa growled, shooting a quizzical little glance at Tyrion as he settled across from Sansa, looking much more relaxed and at ease in a simple dark green linen shirt that looked much too big for him.

She heaved a heavy sigh and rested her chin in her hands as she sprawled out on her stomach on the bear rug, holding out her cup for more wine. "I think you are right, Ser Bronn. It does not appear that we can go back outside for the remainder of the night. What game shall we play then if we do not want to lose fingers? Or any other appendages, milord?"

Tyrion scowled as he realized his wife was paying his friend more attention than him. If they were to be stuck here, then they might as well get to know more about one another during their confinement. "Let's play a game that _I'm_ good at. I happen to be a great judge of character."

"Sounds like a boring game," snapped Bronn, rolling his eyes, and exchanging an amused little smirk with Tyrion's bride. "but…given there's nothing else to fucking do until the little prick calms down and we can go about our lives, then I guess we have no choice but to hole up in here and wait things out, then. We got nothing better to do. I'll go first."

Tyrion frowned, glancing towards Sansa, whose face remained impassive, though the man could see it in her eyes that she regretted hitting Joffrey. "You were…merely reacting in the moment, Lady Sansa. I have hit my nephew…" Here, he paused to count on his fingers, "at least a grand total of three times, and I'm still standing," he joked weakly.

"You are," she admitted, sounding surprised. Sansa sighed and tucked back a lock of auburn hair that had fallen in front of her face. "But…it is different with me, milord Tyrion. For you are his Uncle…"

Tyrion did not see how it was. "And?" he emphasized, curious.

" _And_ ," Sansa elaborated, though she did not sound annoyed with him, for which Tyrion was grateful. "You are also a _man_ , husband. Men tend to react to such outbursts as the king's with violence when provoked. But for women, oh, for women, we are expected to maintain proper decorum and edict, and to hit someone, much less a man, and even worse, a King, is unladylike and is therefore frowned upon and met with scorn," she growled, and there was no mistaking the bitterness in her tone. She winced and flexed her fingers gingerly, her hand still bright red.

"Does it hurt? That?" Tyrion asked, motioning towards her hand.

"It is fine," Sansa answered airily, though her blue eyes cast downward, and she mutely held out her hand for Lord Tyrion to take.

His wife's hands were frailty and caution, shaking gently as she allowed the hand that she had punched King Joffrey with, to rest in his palm. In her movements were so much of the young girl that she was, but also the fine young woman that she was becoming. They were ashen when the light from the candelabras caught them, not ghostly, just…subdued and grayish. Tyrion blanched as he realized this was perhaps the first time that he concluded that this was how vulnerable Sansa Stark was and how much of a toll being in the company of his family had taken. For Sansa did not belong in King's Landing at all.

"But…" Sansa bit her bottom lip in hesitation in a slight pout, not wishing to divulge the undeniable rage that had coursed through her bloodstream, feeling as though her insides had been lit with Wildfire upon seeing Ramsay Bolton, that Bastard, and King Joffrey, present the pair of them with a mutilated, broken version of a shell of a man who was once Theon Greyjoy, and when Theon had met her gaze, it was like he did not even recognize her. No. Theon was gone. All that was in his place was…

"Reek," she whispered, and Sansa realized immediately that she'd spoken it out loud, as she watched as Tyrion's frown deepened in thought.

Seeing Theon step out of the shadows and into the light had been the breaking point of her patience. She had not been thinking at all when she'd drawn her fist back and punched Joffrey Baratheon square in the nose, how the cracking sound of his bones crunching was so very loud and had seemed like it resonated within the Lannisters' banquet hall.

She had…she had _punched_ him. Seven hells! Broken his nose! Made him bleed from both of his nostrils. She had heard the crunch of bones.

Sansa was honestly surprised that King Joffrey and Ramsay Bolton had not attempted to corner Sansa and Tyrion in the hallway as she stormed out of the hall and towards Lord Tyrion's chambers. Sansa winced and flexed her fingers gingerly, noticing the red markings, especially on her ring finger, where the little plain gold band that Tyrion had given her glittered proudly even in the dimly lit chambers, the only source of light the fire in the hearth and the candles scattered about the room on tables, various windowsills, etc.

Sansa tried to quell the aching after bittersweet taste of revenge that lingered and settled upon her tongue, but its bitterness continued to draw her in. She felt an immense wave of guilt for what she had done, more so for Lord Tywin's embarrassment of the spectacle that Sansa had caused.

Though, they all knew Joffrey to be at fault. Not her. Not Tyrion. His fault. He and Bolton had conspired and chosen to parade that poor boy in front of her, tormenting him, torturing him like he was nothing more than an accursed freak in some traveling band of performers.

Mocking her, though she could live with that, but what she could not stand by was anybody being mistreated in such a horrible way, whether that was people mocking Tyrion for what he was, or tormenting Theon. He hadn't recognized her. Seeing that familiar sign of subtle yet effective bullying in Theon, and at Ramsay Bolton and now her King's hand, reminded her too much of the torment she had suffered under Joffrey's hand while she was here.

Something had shifted within her and she had felt the change within as she had noticed how the King's gaze remained fixated on hers and Tyrion's. She knew she should have found a way to stop herself doing it.

To possibly return to the banquet hall, to fall on her knees and beseech forgiveness from Lord Tywin for the scene that she had caused.

Sansa felt a horrible tightness constrict in her throat as she shoved her knuckles in her mouth, horrified and yet relieved at what she had done. "That felt good. To—to hit him," she whispered, glancing up at Tyrion.

He snorted and dared to scoot a little bit closer, just enough to put his hand over top hers. "I imagine that it did. The little cunt needs more of it."

Sansa nodded, exhaling a tense, relieved breath and she let out a tiny sigh as she felt one of Tyrion's hand find purchase in the back of her hair , slowly undoing her hair from its braids and letting it flow loose about her shoulders, her brows furrowing into a frown as she thought of Theon's horrified expression. Though she was furious with Theon Greyjoy for what he had done, even Sansa knew the man did not deserve such horrible treatment. Her lungs felt as though they could not expand.

"I—I think I would like to play that game now, Tyrion," she whispered hoarsely, crawling on her stomach to reach with grasping fingers for the flagon of wine and pour herself a fresh goblet. "How do we play it?"

Tyrion exhaled, relieved to be talking of something else, and also surprised that she had willingly held his hand. He gave it a gentle squeeze.

"You have done enough, wife. Feel free to sit back and watch. Relax. Let the wine ease the tensions from earlier and watch as I kick Bronn's ass at one of my favorite games, it's quite fun, Lady Stark." He coughed once to clear his throat and fixed Bronn with a challenging smirk. "Bronn goes first. You killed your first man when you were twelve," Tyrion started, narrowing his eyes darkly. "I'm right, aren't I?"

" _He_ was a woman, actually," Bronn corrected, as Tyrion lifted his cup to his lips and drank. Noting Tyrion and Sansa's stunned, horrified expressions, Tyrion's hired guard felt the need to elaborate. "She swung an axe at me!" he cried, raising his hands in defense as Sansa playfully swatted his arm.

Sansa pursed her lips into a thin line and narrowed her eyes. "My turn, husband. _My_ turn to ask a question." She bit her bottom lip.

"Fine, fine," Tyrion huffed, resting against a small wooden table. "Go on, my fair-skinned beauty with the hair like winter fire. Try to penetrate the enigma that is me, though I don't think you will be able."

Sansa fell silent for a moment, her gaze traveling up and down her new lord husband, and even Bronn noticed the light pink blush speckling along his cheeks and his sudden refusal to meet his lady wife's gaze.

"You were in love once," she spoke up, and the deepening blush along Tyrion's face only confirmed her suspicions. "You were married?"

Tyrion frowned, feeling his face drain in color. "How did you hear that?" he snapped, looking towards Bronn for confirmation, who shrugged his shoulders, though his eyes betrayed him. " _Bronn_. You _told_ her?"

Bronn rolled his eyes and snorted. "Not all of the details, but enough," he sighed, absently picking at his nails. "She's your wife, milord, do you not think she deserves to know the truth? From you…"

Tyrion groaned, thumping his palm alongside the side of his face in exasperation. "It is…not a pleasant story, Lady Sansa, but…if you insist."

He swallowed nervously and met Sansa's impassive gaze. She gave a curt nod though something in her expression softened as she looked at him. Tyrion coughed once to clear his throat and looked down at his nails.

"I was only sixteen when it happened. My brother Jaimie and I were riding when we heard a scream down the road. A girl ran out onto the road, her clothes half torn off, two men at her heels, in a state of hysterics. My brother scared away her would-be-rapists easily enough while I did what I could to calm the girl down and wrapped her in my cloak, took her to the nearest inn, and fed her, and listened. She was too scared to wander off on her own, so I stayed with her while Jaimie hunted down the men. H—her name was Tysha," he stammered, actively averting Sansa's gaze. "She was hungry. Looked like she hadn't eaten a good square meal in days. Together, we finished off three chickens and a flagon of wine."

He noticed Sansa's awed expression and smiled, his fingers still trailing trough her hair. He was grateful that Sansa did not flinch or turn away. If anything, he could not help but to notice that it almost seemed as though she genuinely allowed herself to relax the more he touched her.

As if she were forcing her body to relax and get used to him touching her. He froze as Sansa craned her neck up to stare at him and he blushed.

Tyrion opened his mouth to continue his story but was not given a chance as he felt something unexpected and warm press against his cheek.

All it left as her lips parted was a tiny little wet mark, a shallow pool of saliva on her cheek. But when his new wife planted the kiss there, Tyrion felt a warmth spread through his wretched little limbs and his mind felt a pleasant buzz that he knew was not from the wine he'd drank.

Every good thing seemed possible, likely, even. And then, he knew that he had found what he had been searching for all these years alone.

For someone like Sansa to show him what it meant to be happy from the inside out, so his smile could be genuine, true, and not that of a mask.

To most, a kiss on the cheek would be a sign of friendship, or a polite way to greet a stranger of the opposite sex. But Tyrion knew that a simple peck could convey as much meaning as a full-on kiss. Simple though it may be, a kiss on the cheek is special in its own, unique way, and coming from his bride, it meant the world. He recollected her request of him earlier, how she had wished for the two of them to take things slowly.

He could respect that wish, and more importantly than that, he too wished for it. He wanted to earn Lady Sansa's respect and her love.

For her to want to choose to stay by his side, for him to be her protector. "Tell the rest of the story," she encouraged lightly, her voice firm but not unkind. Sansa furrowed her brows into a frown and further pleaded her case by resting her head in his lap, splaying her auburn tresses out behind her, and folding her hands across her stomach, intertwining her fingers together. "I should like to hear it, Tyrion. Please?" she begged, a note of teasing laced throughout her voice, but her blue eyes were solemn.

He sighed, raking his fingers through her red hair. "There was a time when I was unaccustomed to wine, believe it or not, wife," he commented, which earned him an eye roll from both Bronn and Sansa. "I forgot how afraid I was back then around girls. How I was always waiting for them to laugh at me or to ask me about my tall handsome brother."

"Who beds his sister," commented Sansa sardonically and the heat crept to her cheeks as Tyrion glanced down at the gilded woman's head resting in his lap and she flushed. "Come, husband. The rumors are true."

"Don't let my sister hear you say that," came Tyrion's answer, perhaps harsher than he would have liked, for he noted the hurt look in Sansa's eyes, and he sighed, his expression softened and sparking with something new. "But you are right, it's true, though as your husband, I would be remiss if I did not caution you to avoid spreading that kind of talk throughout King's Landing if you value keeping your tongue, wife. Anyways, where was I?" he scowled, looking towards Sansa and Bronn.

"The whore." Bronn pointed out helpfully, smirking at the flustered dwarf's expression over the rim of his own goblet. "The chickens?"

"Thank you," growled Tyrion, flashing his personal guard a withering look, though when Sansa shot him a furtive, playful wink, and he could not help but to return his wife's smile, feeling a surge of warmth spread through his chest and an unfamiliar feeling he could not identify.

It took him a moment to realize the thing he was feeling was hope.

"All I could focus on was Tysha. She made me forget about everything else. How the people laughed me, called me names. None of that matters. Anyways, somehow, after we finished off the chickens, I found myself in her bed."

Bronn snorted. "For three chickens and a flagon of wine, and the fact that you saved her life, I should hope so."

"It didn't last long. I didn't know what the hell I was doing. But she was good to me. She kissed me afterwards. Sang me a song," Tyrion sighed wistfully. "And when the morning came, I was deep enough in love with her to ask for her hand. Few lies, a few gold coins, and one drunken Septon, and there you have it. Man and wife. For a fortnight anyways, until the Septon sobered up and told my father." Tyrion's voice cracked and he hated hearing the dip in his voice as his tone lowered.

Sansa frowned, seeing those gravity-drawn shoulders of her lord husband's painting a picture of the man's heart, as if neither it nor his soul would welcome a beat. She could see it in his eyes, that his mind had built some new walls with him so lonely on the other side. She hoped that in time, Lord Tyrion would give her a chance, to tear down this wall brick by brick and start to feel together what it truly meant to be married.

His eyes shifted to the side again, away from her and became glazed, blinking back an onset of briny tears that threatened to escape. No doubt this was a painful story for him to tell, and she did not blame him for burying this part of his life deep within, but still…she wanted to hear it.

Tyrion bit his lip tightly in an attempt to hide any sound that wanted to escape from his mouth, and Sansa felt her heart sink to the pit of her stomach. His lower lip quivered as the next words slowly made their way out of his mouth. "My…my father, he…" he began, yet what followed was engulfed in a strange tremor as he ground his teeth in anger, in hurt.

"It is all right," soothed Sansa, reaching up a hand to entangle it in his hair, though she did not remove her head from his lap. "You do not have to continue if telling the rest of the story makes you uncomfortable."

"N—no, that's all right," stammered Tyrion, his face flushing a deep crimson red, though whether it was embarrassment at almost breaking down in front of his wife and friend on his wedding night, or not wanting to admit how nice her hand entangled in his hair felt, she could not guess.

"Tell the rest," Bronn demanded, his hand curled around the flagon.

"First," Tyrion sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "My father had Jaimie tell me the truth. Tysha, my wife, was a whore, you see. Jaimie had arranged the whole thing for me. The road, the men, the inn, the goddamned chickens. All of it. He thought it was time I had a _woman_ ," he growled, and Sansa's grip in his hair tightened as she no doubt heard the crack in his voice yet a second time. "And after my brother confessed, my father brought in my wife and gave her to his guards. He paid her well. Silver for each man. How many whores can command that kind of price? Father brought me into the barracks and made me watch. By the end of it all, Tysha had so much silver that the coins were spilling out of her fingers and onto the floor."

He coughed, feeling as though his throat were suddenly tightening and constricting, cutting off his ability to breathe. Behind the masked false smile that he wore on his face, there was such a sadness and shock that Sansa could hardly stand it, and even Bronn seemed at a loss for words.

But Bronn was the first to break the silence, thank the gods. "I woulda killed the man that did that to me," he snapped, and even Sansa heard the faintest traces of anger laced throughout the sellsword's voice as he drank from his cup.

Tyrion scowled and rolled his eyes. "Yes, well. I was young and stupid. Sixteen, drunk and in love and nowhere near as wise as I am now," Tyrion sighed, averting his gaze from Sansa.

The pain laced throughout his voice was so great, heavy enough that his wife could hardly bear it. His eyes snapped open as he felt the pressure and weight of Sansa's head leave his lap and the room suddenly felt colder as she left the warmth of the bearskin rug near the fireplace and opened the door a crack, and poked her head down the hall. For a moment, he felt enraged, wanting to demand of his wife that she stay.

He swallowed back the urge and watched as Bronn followed.

"I do not think they have come this way yet, Ser Bronn. I think you will be safe to return to the banquet if you should like, but we will not, I am afraid. Both of us are…fighting headaches, I think. You will have to forgive my husband, for he is very tired and needs rest," she whispered, and the hardened edge in Sansa's voice was unmistakable.

Bronn, while not the sharpest mind that Tyrion had ever known, knew more than enough when to take the hint and bid his lord and new wife a pleasant evening. "I should tell the servants to stay away from the doors, especially the women, lest they hear something inappropriate for their delicate sensibilities," he laughed, to which Sansa pulled a face as she gingerly shut the door behind him, Bronn's boisterous laughter still resonating down the hall. Sansa sighed and shook her head in amusement.

Tyrion anxiously glanced to his left and right, to anywhere but Sansa in a distressed sense of a panic, repeatedly, as a single second passed the newlyweds by, checking for signs of danger that would not come to them.

Sansa supposed, given the nature of what she had done, she could not blame Lord Tyrion for being so unreasonably afraid. She knew that what scared Tyrion was the fear of being forgotten, afraid that when it came his time to tether the earthly coil that bound him to this world and venture into the next, that Time itself would forget him. That he would live an unimportant life, discarded as the black sheep of the Lannister family, surrounded by other members of his family who would go down in the history books. She knew he was afraid that despite all the good he would do for the world one day, with his cleverness and ability to turn a phrase, that he would still be a no one. "You hide behind your words, Tyrion."

Tyrion blearily lifted his head and tried to focus his hazy gaze a few feet from himself and listen to his wife's wise words of wisdom. "You want your words to mask the real you, but you do not have to with me."

Sansa heaved a little sigh and collapsed back on the floor and resumed her restful position of laying sprawled out on the bearskin rug, her head resting in his lap. The exertion of just the simple act of getting up off the floor from her comfortable position to escort Ser Bronn to the door, brought out another bout of breathlessness, like the air around her was devoid of air for her to breathe. Her ribs heaved up and down, but no benefit to Tyrion's wife came. Only dizziness, though feeling his fingers move throughout her hair, surprisingly soft and tender, helped with that.

She closed her eyes and rested her head against Tyrion's lap.

"It's never really something you get used to, is it? Fear," she whispered, still keeping her head firmly planted on Tyrion's knee, and she let out a sigh as his fingers came up to graze the skin near her collarbone.

"You know our little vicious cunt of a king will not forget what you have done," he sighed, though he did not sound angry with Sansa.

"I'm not expecting him to," Sansa sighed. "I just hope he remembers. A fine king he is, parading Greyjoy about the hall that way."

She curled her fingers over top Tyrion's and intertwined their fingers. "He certainly has no regard for your honor, or mine. We should consider leaving to Casterly Rock if we seek to have any peace and quiet."

"Maybe." He'd considered it, though now that they were actively discussing it, it felt more of a possibility. "If that is what you wish, wife."

Sansa bit her bottom lip and fell silent, though she did not avert her gaze from Tyrion. "Does it not bother you, constantly being mocked? Why would you not wish to relocate to somewhere where you would be treated with respect?" she asked, biting down harder on her lip that it bled.

He lightly swatted her hand away. "Don't do that, you'll make it worse," Tyrion sighed, as he dared to meet Sansa Stark's gaze. "I…how do you know that I would be treated with respect wherever we went?"

Sansa's husband tugged lightly at his green linen shirt. "I am a dwarf. As much as I wish that I could be like my older brother, Jaimie. Tall, noble, and handsome. I am not."

"Not tall," Sansa interjected, before Tyrion could finish his thought.

He furrowed his brows into a frown, certain he must have misheard Sansa's words. "What?" he demanded, his voice brazen and quite curt.

"You are not tall, Tyrion, I'll give you that. But you are the other things. Noble. Handsome enough. You saved me from your bastard nephew bashing my brains out in the throne room," she joked weakly, her smile faltering at the memory and Tyrion exhaled a shaking breath of relief as a pleasant smile lit Sansa's feature.

Her smile was one of happiness growing, much as a spring flower blossoms in the sun and warmth. He could see how it came from deep inside to light Sansa's eyes and spread into every part of her. A person smiled with more than their mouth, and Tyrion heard it in his wife's voice, in the choice of her words and the way she seemed to relax and almost melted into his lap as they sat by the fire on the bearskin rug.

It was beautiful. "My father had a saying once," Sansa whispered, breaking the silence, shifting in his lap, and glancing away from Tyrion's inquisitive, intense gaze, a light pink blush speckling along her cheeks.

He let out a sigh as she sat up, hair slightly mussed though it quickly smoothed out as she raked her fingers through her wavy auburn tresses, and he let out a muffled groan of surprise as she moved not to sit away from him, which was what Tyrion fully expected of Sansa to do, but instead moved to sit in his lap and rested her chin on top of his head.

"That when the darkness comes for you, and it will, to believe in the light. In times of sorrow, believe in joy. In pain, believe in empathy. In frustration, believe in patience. In anger, take heart with perspective. In indifference, to believe in love, and in evolving wisdom, therein lives hope for us all, and that we have all a light within us. I know that the people of Casterly Rock will not laugh at us. At you, because if they do, they will have me to answer to, and as your wife, I will command respect." Tyrion let out a content sigh as she rested her chin on top of his head. He knew that Sansa was right. As she always was.

By the gods, how this woman could possibly exist, he could not begin to fathom it. For her to seek his embrace, gods, how had he ever come to deserve Sansa? Finding no words to express himself in that moment, he merely held his wife close until the gentle rise and fall of her breaths slowed and evened out as she fell asleep. He carefully turned Sansa in his arms, gingerly lifting her in his arms and discovering her to be already asleep in a deep, peaceful slumber, no doubt exhausted from several days of endless strolls through those goddamned gardens and always having to look over her shoulder for signs of that cunt, Joffrey.

With the utmost care, he lowered her resting body into the safety of their bed as best as he could, Sansa still having to walk most of the way to the bed, since she was so much taller and heavier, laying her blankets evenly and securely around her form. He pressed a careful kiss to her brow, and she murmured something inaudible and turned her head. "Rest, wife," he murmured. "May you dream of us. I'll come for you." This he knew to be true. He would always come for her, no matter what.

Sansa stirred in her sleep, enjoying the feeling of his arms around her middle as he did not relinquish his grip upon her limp body. She had been held before, of course, but not like this. Not since her Mother was brutally murdered.

There was something so warm, something that felt just…so right. Smelt right, even. She let her body sag against Tyrion's, her muscles becoming loose. He gave her the respect of an equal but cradled her like a cherished child, as if she were made of the finest glass, like she'd shatter.

In that embrace, Sansa felt her worries lose their keen sting and her optimism raise its head from the dirt, even as she allowed herself to succumb to sleep as the worries over what she had done to King Joffrey in the banquet hall slowly melted away. Perhaps the hope had been there along, but without love, it became trapped, like crystals in a stone.

She felt him brush her hair back gently with the pads of his fingers and kiss her gently, and even long after his lips left hers, she remained asleep with the ghost of a soft smile upon her face. Tyrion was her anchor, the one that gave her hope and light when the darkness came for her.


	8. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I found this super cute Sansa/Tyrion ( don't know Sansa and Tyrion's ship name or I'd abbreviate it) fanart on DeviantArt that just makes my heart sing and have a fan-girl moment, so I thought I would share. Artwork by MathiaArkoniel: 
> 
> https://www.deviantart.com/mathiaarkoniel/art/asoiaf-Tyrion-and-Sansa-s-Wedding-312613081

** Sansa **

Sansa opened her eyes to the dimly lit room, though it was surely daytime, the drapes were still drawn, though the balcony terrace doors were open. She squinted, dry mouth sticky with thick saliva and moaned before retreating under her covers. The aching in her skull ebbed and flowed like a cold tide, yet the pain remained. She understood at once why the people called it a hangover, for it felt as if the blackest of clouds were over Sansa’s head with no intention of clearing until the late afternoon.

How the smell of the wine last night was intoxicating, yet this morning, it only added to the nausea, and she wondered if one of the Maesters could provide for her a tonic into some tea that would help ease the pounding and aching in the back of her skull. The thirst stayed, lingering, and her head felt fit to crack wide open if she were not careful. Sansa was more aware of her cracking headache than the layer of dehydrated saliva that coated her cracked lips. From her pounding head, taste of vomit in her mouth and dehydrated feeling and sudden craving of water, she surmised she drank quite a bit last night.

Her throat felt like dust. It hurt to move. It felt as though she were sick with a stomach bug, only self-inflicted, which meant she’d garner no sympathy from anyone. At least the curtains were still closed. Maybe she could sleep this off.

Sansa burrowed deeper under the covers and clenched her eyes shut, though to no avail as daylight streamed in blinding white shafts through the open terrace doors of the chambers, Sansa felt her vision slowly but surely clear, and her eyelids fluttered open as she blearily awoke to the cold.

She had expected quite the headache having indulged in the consumption of more wine last night than she was used to, given the nature of her circumstances, but she wasn’t about to question why she didn’t have one. Sansa could see the open window, a four pronged candle on the windowsill’s ledge, its wax melted and clung to it like a disease. Sansa moved her fingers behind her head and felt the soft pillow. Her body felt strangely numb and yet at the same time ached all over. Her mind churned as she struggled to regulate her breaths to something that resembled normalcy, already clamoring for sweet relief to come to her.

Had he broken his promise to her? Is that why she ached so terribly?

“He _promised_ ,” Sansa whispered shakily and glanced towards the other side of the marriage bed, where the crumbled indentations of Tyrion’s form were still visible, showing that he had slept next to her. Furrowing her brows into a frown, Sansa glanced upward from the overly large marriage bed she found herself in, attempting to steady herself, attempting to comprehend just what happened to her last night. Her body felt as though it had been bruised in every way possible. Her legs felt shaky and were she not already lying down on top of the mattress, if she had been standing, she felt certain she’d have collapsed.

Sansa clenched her eyes shut as her face contorted. Never had she experienced such a horrible pain before in her life, but why? Tyrion had barely laid so much as a finger on her last night, so why was she feeling like this? She could feel her head—or was that the room? —spinning ultimately, as her jaw clenched, and she collapsed back against the pillow in a horrible, fatigued exhaustion.

Sansa let out a tiny groan and there was a horrible constricting upon her throat, like the weight itself was sucking out her breath. The young woman sighed, her once tranquil face now seeming like she was just struggling to draw breaths back into her lungs. Slowly, the pressure within her throat tightened, and Sansa could only help but feel an increasing well of panic mount deep in her chest.

_Poison. Poison, poison, King Joffrey poisoned me somehow to punish me_ , she thought wildly. Sansa sat up straighter against her pillows, her fingers curling into a tight fist around the strangely soft goose feather blanket. She did not recollect seeing such a blanket last night when they’d talked, the three of them, her, Tyrion, and Ser Bronn, so where had this come from? Sansa did not believe Lord Tyrion owned such a pretty thing.

The young woman furrowed her brows as she glanced down at the strange blanket by which someone had draped over her form during sleep.

Strange. Tyrion owned no such blanket, and nor could she recall seeing any of the handmaidens carry away this type of fabric to wash it. _So where…?_ Sansa heaved a heavy groan and put a shaking hand to her forehead. Her poor head from where the back of her skull had seemingly hit the post of the bed last night when she’d passed out ached and throbbed. The pain felt like someone had taken a knife to the back of her skull. She rested her head back against the pillow. Squeezing her eyes shut, she swallowed hard past the growing lump in her throat and the swells of nausea, willing the pain to go away.

The ache was dull, as if some lazy torturer were standing right behind her, applying just enough pressure to be an annoyance. It sat there, just to the right of her shoulder blade towards her spine, but why it ached so badly, Sansa could only guess, and she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to know the truth to her query. She could imagine it would be like lying on a large sheet of glass. Perhaps at first the sensation would be cool and pleasant, but then it would really start to hurt. The rest of her little world here in the secluded, strangely dark bedchamber despite the open door to the balcony terrace became detached, cold, and distant.

At least, that’s the way it felt without Tyrion here to make some quip or remark to make her laugh. All Sansa could concentrate on was the deep rooted pains in her head, how she could think of her dreams last night of the forest.

Of home. Winterfell, and…and…the wolves. How in her dream last night, moving into the morning light was a wolf. She was a white-silver, fur glossy and thick. Her paws kissed the earth with a lightness and there was a peaceful serenity in her gaze. Sansa stayed still, for if she moved, then the creature would take flight into the trees. She remembered breathing slow and let time slow down, trying her hardest to commit this moment to memory forever, though she knew it to be naught but a dream, but by the Light of the Seven, it had felt so incredibly _real_ , as if she were there.

Perhaps tonight, Sansa thought, albeit sadly, she would dream of the wolf again, and of being as free as the wolf was, out here with nature. Living with family. A pack of people who cared for you. But such a dream was impossible. The best she could hope for out of the hand that life had dealt was that Tyrion would continue to treat her with kindness and allow Sansa to progress their marriage at a pace that was comfortable for them both, not to rush. She swallowed hard past the lump forming in her throat.

She could barely hear the faint tittering’s of the other maids, no doubt crowded outside her and Lord Tyrion’s chamber doors, obviously having to come escort the Imp’s bride out of bed and to the mess hall. No candles had been lit to provide light or warmth and the room was bathed in shadow, but a pair of pinpricks burned as bright as a midnight torch from a corner, glacier blue against black. Sansa felt her jaw drop slightly in shock and she scrambled out of the bed and into the corner, not even minding that she was in just her green gown from the other night.

Apparently, she hadn’t even bothered to change. She frowned and glanced down, relieved, at the very least, that she was still clothed, thank the gods. Sansa swallowed nervously and let out the tiniest of muffled whimpers, as she came to realize that she could practically see the loathing that spiraled in the Stranger’s eyes, for that was what he was, a Stranger to her, at least until he stepped from the shadows and into the light to reveal himself to Sansa, and explain to the Imp’s wife what he was doing unescorted into their private chambers.

She had been hoping that perhaps Tyrion would be by her side when she woke, or to a lesser extent, even Ser Bronn, but now as she looked into the deep pools of blue in this man’s eyes, Sansa Stark was unnerved, given that the only emotions she could read in this person’s eyes was that of disdain and dislike. A hatred for her, of which Sansa felt she was undeserving of, as she had done nothing wrong to this man who had somehow managed to find his way past the guards and handmaidens and into their quarters. Or… _had_ she offended him? Had she somehow wronged this man in some way?

What little she could see of the Stranger’s face; she was not able to discern any part that was recognizable. Sansa swallowed nervously, knitting her brows together in confusion and felt one arch in the intruder’s general direction as she bluntly refused to avert her gaze from his eyes, nor he, it would seem, from hers. “Who are you? What do you want with me?” she demanded, hating hearing the crack and dip in her tone.

There was something in the man’s blue eyes, now darkened to an almost cerulean hue, that Sansa could not quite identify. Something that in her mind strangely resembled hatred, and worse…a frustrated sort of tense desire. For _her_.

Sansa gulped, blinking rapidly as the man continued to shroud himself in shadow. She did not know how to react, and she could not seem to find her voice.

“To talk, little dove. Nothing more and nothing less than that, Lady Stark. _Alone_ ,” emphasized the man’s voice, and Sansa sharply inhaled a breath of warm spring air that wafted in through the open double doors of the terrace as a shaft of light momentarily illuminated the spot where the Stranger stood, and Sansa felt her blood turn to ice and her bare feet felt rooted to the floor.

“ _You_ ,” she growled through gritted teeth, baring her canines, wildly searching about the room for anything—something—that she could use to defend herself. Sansa made a quick mental note to ask Tyrion later about possibly coming up with some kind of a call bell system they could use to summon help.

A handmaiden, Ser Bronn, they could each have different little bells with different tolls, signaling what the other wanted. One for food, drink, emptying of the chamber pots or changing of the bed linens or danger… just this morning, even, she could have sworn she heard the faint disgruntled voice of Tyrion in her state of semi-conscious complain to Sansa’s new handmaiden, Shae, about knocking and not to enter their room again if the door was locked without knocking and announcing her presence. Shae had sounded like she’d argued against Lord Tyrion's demands, sounding thoroughly put off.

Shoving aside inappropriate thoughts of Shae for now, Sansa blinked and was quickly reminded of a much _bigger_ problem than a handmaiden who was not treating Sansa with any respect currently staring her in the face, and that problem’s name was Ramsay Bolton. She tasted the acidic bitter bile rising from the depths of her stomach, creeping its way up through her throat and settling on her tongue. She thought she might vomit as horrible visions of whatever fate Bolton had planned for her danced in the forefront of her mind, refusing to part from her conscience, but she fought back the urge to be sick and swallowed past the swelling throat lump.

“Get _out_ of our bedroom, Lord Bolton,” Sansa snarled, hearing her voice shake slightly. “You seem _lost_. Perhaps I can help you find your way. The door is right there, show yourself out and I will not tell Lord Tyrion that you were here,” she snapped, jerking her head towards the door, the color draining from her face as she realized that Ramsay Bolton had locked it, preventing her escape.

_Or keeping Tyrion out_ , her subconscious offered rather unhelpfully. She bit the wall of her cheek. Spotting a strange long wooden rod that lay near her feet, Sansa thought that sufficient enough and hastily knelt to pick it up, her fingers clutching tightly onto it and held it out defensively in front of her like a sword.

_If Arya were here, she’d laugh at me and probably tell me I’m holding the damn thing wrong and try to show me the correct way to use this_ , her mind piped up. Sansa let out a threatening, low warning growl from the back of her throat as Ramsay advanced, his light charming smile predatory, wolfish, and ravenous.

Sansa knitted her brows together in concern as she glanced at the thin rod held out defensively in front of her. She wouldn’t be surprised if the damn thing snapped in two if Bolton somehow managed to wrench it away from her. Steeling her nerves, determined not to let this Skinflayer in front of her feed off her fear, she curled her fingers around the rod and felt its surprisingly cold dampness.

Sansa bit the inside of her cheek and hesitated. “Wh—what do you want with me, milord Bolton? How did you get past our guards, Bolton?” she asked, hoping to stall in conversation long enough for help to arrive. She was not impulsive nor reactionary like Arya was, though she supposed she could have made an argument for last night by slapping Joffrey.

“I snuck past.” His answer was curt, simple, and quite to the point.

Sansa blinked, momentarily startled out of her fear for the man standing in front of her, the tip of his nose practically touching hers as he closed off the gap of space. “Even the big ones like Sandor Clegane’s brother?” she breathed, her eyes widening even more as Ramsay offered a silent nod of his head. “Impressive.” _Idiot! Stupid, stupid girl, can you not see what he is doing to you? This is not the time for your games!_ Sansa shook her head wildly to clear it and let out another growl, though it sounded nowhere near as menacing as she had hoped. She was no Wolf of Winterfell. She was just a Mouse.

She visibly cringed as her words came out weaker than she had intended, her voice coming on as more of a hoarse croak in between shaking little breaths. “I—If I offended you last night by reacting poorly to your… _gift_ , then I am sorry.” Sansa clenched her eyes shut and let out a whimper. She wasn’t able to think clearly in the moment, and if judging by the way that Roose Bolton’s son was eyeballing her figure in her green gown, her sleep tousled hair hanging loose in natural ringlets to her shoulders, then he was not about to just up and let her walk away from this.

Sansa exhaled a shaking breath through her nose and held out the wretched wooden rod that was already in danger of snapping in two in front of her, ready to attempt to defend herself as she tried to think of anything to say to stall Ramsay. To keep him listening rather than attacking her and resorting to violence. Sansa’s ears perked up as she heard a rustling noise coming from directly in front of her, behind Ramsay’s tall, stocky, towering form, and she froze, biting the inside of her cheek, unaware that the briefest flickers of hope passed through her cobalt blue orbs, which were darkening, turning almost cerulean in color the more upset and panicked Sansa became over the simple, yet astonishing fact that that Ramsay Bolton, this Bastard, this Beast, had somehow managed to sneak past all twelve armored guards and into her room without anyone’s knowledge.

She’d hoped that the noise would have been Tyrion, who, for all accounts and purposes was rather resilient and able to go unnoticed, sneaking past people much bigger than he was and much stronger too, simply because of his short stature. _I wish that it were_ , she thought, barely repressing a tiny muffled squeak. _He’d stab your ankles with his dagger without so much as a second thought!_ Now, she could only hope that Ramsay Bolton remained true to his word, that, for whatever great urge had overcome the man which led him to sneak into her private chambers at the crack of dawn as the sun’s first rays struck the water’s horizon, that he simply wanted to talk. About what, she didn’t know.

She clenched her eyes shut and shot a silent prayer to the gods and the Light of the Seven, any one of the old gods and the new that would listen to her this morning that Tyrion would come. Bronn, someone…

Because this man standing in front of her outweighed her by several times and looked to be much stronger.

The only chance she had at walking out of this room uninjured was to talk to Ramsay, find out what in the seven hells he wanted with her and Tyrion, why he was here. “I—if you simply wanted to talk, you could have sought us out down in the mess hall, milord,” she began, her voice wavering as her resolve failed her. Sansa swallowed nervously as she gingerly raised her head and lifted her chin, jutting it out slightly defiantly to meet Lord Roose Bolton’s son’s cold gaze. She had never seen another man look at her in this way, except for perhaps that wretched little shit, Joffrey, and this time made her feel just as frightened, given that this all-too familiar look she was becoming quite accustomed to was coming from a man who was not as familiar to her as Joffrey Baratheon was.

His cobalt blue eyes had a deadness, a stillness, and she winced as Ramsay standing in front of her closed off the gap of space between the two of them in the corner of Lord Tyrion’s bedchambers and growled in irritation and bared his teeth, almost animal-like and wolfish in nature that rendered the young redhead still. As the man promptly returned Sansa’s unwavering and frightened gaze, Sansa wished that the Bastard of Bolton would have kept his gaze fixated at a spot on the wall behind her head. Deliberation for her was over. Ramsay Bolton had judged Lord Tyrion Lannister’s wife already and, in his eyes, Sansa only saw a cold, icy hatred that she had become all too familiar with, thanks to Joffrey.

There was a tenseness Ramsay Bolton wasn’t even trying to mask. Sansa gulped nervously and felt her back press firmly against the wall of the room, as far as she could go, and she clenched her eyes shut, praying that the gods would send down their wrath and smite this man where he stood, or at the very least, if they had not the heart to do that, then to open up a hole in the floor beneath her feet, to swallow her whole and to not let her re-emerge until it was safe again.

Nothing about this was making any sense. Not Ramsay Bolton’s claims that he had snuck past the guards, not his curling, thick hands into tight fists, or the anger radiating from his pale skin and coloring his cheeks a bright crimson red. By the gods and their saving graces, she wished that Tyrion were here. He had saved her once from the nastiest of Joffrey Baratheon’s wrath, Sansa hoped that her lord husband might be able to do it again, this time with this Beast.

Though she doubted Tyrion or anyone had come looking for her at this early of an hour, when most, she knew, were still asleep, especially given that last night had been their wedding night, it had been expected the two of them would have been up late last night consummating the marriage, so naturally, Sansa could only conclude that Tyrion had woken up before her and had gone…somewhere, though she wished he were here with her right now to save her from this. And now, Sansa found herself alone and at a loss for what to do.

All she knew was then when she looked into Ramsay Bolton’s flashing blue eyes, feeling her back press up even further against the wall of their bedroom, was that there was no way out.

And Sansa was about to be in very big trouble if she could not think of a way to talk herself out of this until help could arrive…


	9. Ramsay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love writing for this asshole so much, it's got me questioning my own sanity LOL. Guess I'm just good at writing bad, I guess. Anyways, I'd say at this point in the story there's maybe a couple more chapters in King's Landing and then it shifts gears to...you guessed it: Winterfell, so Sansa will be returning home, which I'm looking forward to. Lots of good things in store, so I hope that my lovely readers continue to enjoy this alternate story of Tyrion/Sansa told from multiple perspectives, because our main man Tyrion just deserves to be loved. I feel kind of bad he's gotten screwed over in the books and on the show, so this is my attempt to give him a HEA. Or as close as you can get to one in the GOT universe.

** Ramsay  **

Ramsay could tell the Stark girl was quite flustered in his presence and already she was seemingly finding issue with him, which caused him to furrow his dark, thick brows in contemplative thought. He had never quite had a woman react to him in this manner before, not even Myranda. This was…new. He found that he rather liked it. He wanted a wife with a little backbone, a spine.

She swallowed nervously and backed herself further into the very corner he had trapped her within, smirking at the pretty little redhead as he righted over the candelabra he had accidentally tipped over, a hungered, starving look in his azure orbs. “M—my apologies, milord if I have upset you last night—sorry I—if I have offended you in any way,” Sansa Stark squeaked, her words coming out as a strangled attempt at speech. He could see the heat speckle along her cheeks, and she swallowed hard past a swelling lump in her throat.

But Ramsay raised his hands in mock surrender, smiling at her and effectively cutting off from whatever she had been about to say next to him. “I mean you no harm, milady. My words that I spoke to you are true. I just wish for the two of us to…share a dialogue, for I did not have a chance to speak with you last night at your wedding feast. Not as in great detail as I would have liked,” he sighed, sounding immensely disappointed. He smirked as Stark’s eyebrows shot so far up onto her forehead that they almost receded into the girl’s hairline. “I—it’s just…the other night you looked so sad. _Lonely_. I don’t blame you for that. _I_ wouldn’t want to be married to the Demon Monkey, either. Life’s not fucking fair to you ladies, is it, but…still, this is your lot in life, I suppose,” he joked, offering Sansa a charming smile, though she did not return it. His smile faltered and he raked his fingers through his dark hair in agitation. “You asked of me why I am here. I suppose that I am here because….”

Here, he allowed his voice to trail off, looking away for a moment for effect before turning back to regard the cretinous Imp’s bride. “Because you look as though you could use a _friend_ , Lady Stark,” he added simply, picking up a broken candle and picking at the old, dried wax with his nails, though in actuality studying the young woman’s features while pretending to be interested in the candle’s wax as though it were the most fascinating thing in the world. Ramsay did not offer his future bride a smile as he watched her jaw drop open in shock. “You hide a lot, don’t you?” he sighed, smirking a little at her nonplussed expression. “I can tell. You have pretty blue eyes. You are sad. You could just cut it out, you know. Let me into that precious little head of yours. Don’t you think we should get better acquainted with one another if I am to marry you, Lady Stark?” he asked, voice dripping with charm.

This was twice in the span of two days that Sansa had been rendered speechless. The first being presented Theon Greyjoy as a ‘wedding gift,’ and now, _this_. Whatever ‘this’ was. Sansa was rendered completely speechless and at a loss for what to say, unable to think of anything witty to say as a follow up retort. “I…” Sansa spluttered, tripping over her voice. She coughed, a hand over her mouth and slowly straightened her posture. “I fail to see how that is any of your business, milord,” she answered steadily, though the dip in her voice betrayed her.

Ramsay smirked, knowing that she knew as well as he did that the gesture was ill meant. “Calm down, milady. I meant nothing by it.” The young redhead quickly took a few steps backward, carefully inching her way out of the corridor, her hand never leaving the wall and using it as a sort of brace, careful not to trip over her green gown’s hem as the Beast of Bolton quickly advanced and grabbed onto her wrist. He sneered as he allowed his ice-cold gaze to slide over Sansa Stark’s body, adding up her pluses and minuses like a complex mathematical equation. She ranked high enough, allowing for Ramsay to now make her his.

Something about the elusiveness of the winter-haired beauty was calling to Ramsay. Like one of those mystical sirens out at sea told in the tales of old, Ramsay thought wildly. He quickly decided that the She-Wolf of Winterfell was a nine. He, naturally, was a ten. Though Lord Roose’s son decided that Stark’s only reason for being nine and not a perfect ten was due to exactly two things.

Her shy personality and her mouth, which if she did not learn to mind her tongue and keep her temper in check, especially where she was going, was going to one day get her into serious trouble, for there were punishments in the North now, for women who did not learn to mind their place. There might come a day when Stark found herself in a spot of trouble that she would not be able to use that silver, languid tongue of hers to talk her way out of her predicament, and he would not save this bitch from getting a good flaying if he decided she deserved it.

Ramsay Bolton tightened his grip on Sansa’s wrist and raised her arm against her head, slamming her back against the smooth marble of one of the room’s pillars. Sansa Stark’s gaze darted nervously this way and that, wildly searching for any signs of her little lord of a husband or that boorish bodyguard of his. But they wouldn’t come. Either one of them might have been able to put a stop to this.

 _Someone_ , she seemed to silently be begging with her glistening azure eyes, which only caused the ache between Ramsay’s legs to overpower him. _Anyone, please come_. But no help came, despite Sansa Stark’s silent prayer to the gods and the Light of the Seven. Ramsay’s smile lasted until his head swiveled lazily back towards the Stark girl, all the previous ‘charm’ from the other night when he had been in the company of other high ranking nobles and their wives or lovers gone. His thin mouth had formed into a rigid grimace, the blue sparkle in his bewitching eyes extinguished, snuffed out like a candle flame.

He moved in close enough to close off the gap of space so she could practically feel the spirit of his breaths upon her neck and she bristled, the heavy scent of his drink upon his person, specifically that of the red Dornish wine.

Bolton had been drinking. “Come with me, little dove,” Ramsay breathed, his blue eyes shimmering with lust and intrigue as he swallowed hard past the lump forming in his throat. “I can take you away from King’s Landing. You would never have to live among this wretched Den of Lions again. You would be my bride, pretty little thing. Wouldn’t you like that. You would be wise not to lie to me, woman. There is no way the Imp can keep you satisfied, am I right? Of course, I’m right. You want me, you just don’t want to admit it, dear sweet girl. That’s all right,” he crooned, and he reached up a surprisingly tender hand to caress the skin of her cheek. Supple, smooth, perfectly pale, unblemished, untouched by Man or Dwarf alike. Already, he was imagining of future bruises to impart upon her skin. He practically growled with the effort to restrain himself, and his grip upon Lady Sansa’s wrist hard enough to break it. Ramsay raised a finger to his lips and silently shushed the Stark girl as he heard her let out a whine, like one of his wounded bitches, one of his hounds back in Winterfell.

“Shh. It’s all right,” he soothed, his tone dripping with false concern. “Your secret is safe with me, milady. You will not have to worry about the Imp.”

Sansa drew in a sharp breath of pained surprise as she felt Ramsay sweep over her ear and kiss the column of her throat hard, his teeth grazing against her skin, pushing her back roughly against the pillar. She let out a hiss and shoved him violently away, not that it did her any good in terms of an escape plan.

He outweighed her by several pounds and was much stronger and bulkier than she was, and she was not at all skilled with a weapon like Arya was.

“Get off of me!” Sansa screamed, raising her voice, and struggling to control the tremors that were laced within her frightened tones, hoping that Tyrion or Bronn or someone would hear her. This so-called ‘Lord of the North’ was not behaving as a proper gentleman, a true representative of her home ought to.

If he were, he would not have slunk into her bedroom like the snake in the night that she knew him to be, the Boltons were an entire family of snakes, and doing this to her for a start. Sansa swallowed nervously, craning her neck, and having to strain it to look Lord Roose Bolton’s bastard son in his listless blue eyes. She managed to wrench herself free of the man’s grasp and had been about to turn away when she felt a strong hand grip onto her shoulder and tug her violently backwards, causing her to falter and almost lose her footing, given that she was walking barefoot.

“ **LET GO**!” Sansa screamed, twisting violently and with a surprised and pained wince, turned to look Ramsay Bolton, this Skinflayer in his icy blue eyes. “Unhand me! _How dare you lay a hand on me!_ What do you think you are doing to me?” she shouted, sticking out her bottom lip in a slight pout as she hardened her gaze and glowered at this Beast, this Bastard. She just had to find a way to make this man see what he was doing to her was wrong. As Ramsay advanced on her like a wolf that had cornered its prey, he closed off what little gap of space that separated the Imp’s wife and the Bastard, Sansa felt a tremor of fear travel down her spine and a wash of cold envelope her entire body, as though someone had doused her in ice water. “O—oh.” Her voice came out as a breathy squeak. “Wha—n—no, you—you don’t want to do this…”

“Yes, I do.” Ramsay’s words escaped him as more of a low growl, reaching up a strong hand and putting a single finger on Sansa’s lips, effectively silencing her. He was looking deranged, two day-stubble gracing his strong, angular jawline and his chin. His cheekbones in the dim lighting held an emaciated look, sunken in and hollow. His tuft of short dark hair was wild in disarray, and stuck in places, seeming to have a mind of its own, and it was then that Sansa knew.

This. _This_ was the true persona of Ramsay Bolton, that Bastard of Lord Roose Bolton, acting Warden of the North and of Winterfell. Not the charming handsome man who had attended her wedding feast last night with the oil in his hair slicked back, not the man with the silver languid tongue and sweet voice. His bangs needed trimming long ago and hung limp and straight in front of his cobalt blue eyes.

And it was his eyes that scared the young woman the most. When Sansa dared to look into Bolton’s eyes, it was like there was nothing there to behold. An endless depth of ink, sorrow, and pain. She could not see the whites of his eyes nor the vessels that flowed through them. They were the depths of the Seven Hells themselves, holding a thousand souls, yet there were none.

She gulped and swallowed past the lump forming in her throat as it felt as though her throat were closing off, constricting her ability to effectively breathe. Sansa knew she ought not to stare at Lord Roose’s son in such an inappropriate way, for it might provoke him even further, beguile the man to do something beyond that point of no return which there was no coming back from.

Still…there had to be a way to reach Ramsay. Ramsay smirked as he heard her let out a whimper. “What?” he snapped meanly, no warmth in his voice.

“I—if you will have any respect for me, then you will leave,” the young redhead answered, spitting it at him through gritted teeth. “Or I will scream…” she warned, to which Ramsay heard the unmistakable warble in Sansa’s tone and how soft and timid her voice was. Like that of the Little Mouse he knew she was.

“Go ahead.” He spread his arms wide and looked to the left and right before turning back and shoving her back against the pillar. “It’s going to be your word against mine, and who do you think they will believe, beloved.” Ramsay clenched his jaw shut and bit the inside of his cheek as he felt his calloused fingers curl around the bodice of Sansa Stark’s simple green dress. “Hmm?" When Sansa did not respond, he continued. "I know your kind, Stark,” he snarled, his free hand not currently wrapped around Sansa’s waist, which had come up to settle just right and grip almost painfully tight, preventing the woman from any hope of thinking she could escape the precious gift that of his company he was about to bestow her.

Sansa shuddered, a tremor of revolt traveling down her spine, as though she had been struck by lightning. “And what _am_ I, Bolton?” she asked, quivering where she stood, but also incredibly furious with Ramsay, silently seething.

He decided that he liked it, and Ramsay could feel his wide grin creep even further onto his features. “I know women like you,” he breathed, lowering his voice, feeling it go dangerously soft and quiet, relishing the look of dawning horror in the Stark woman’s eyes. “There is no handsome prince coming to save you. Not from this. You are married to the Demon Monkey, Stark. Your life is a joke. Meaningless. Worthless. But…” Here, Ramsay paused for effect and was not disappointed to see the girl’s cobalt blue eyes widen in something akin to anticipation and…not fear. No. This was something else…something _new_.

Ramsay smirked as he watched the Stark woman’s stomach lurch and she seemingly was fighting against the urge to be sick. “Please don’t vomit on my boots, Lady Stark. You don’t want to know the excruciating details your beloved Reek went through to get them to look good. He did it all for _you_ , you know, and it would be a true _shame_ if you were to ruin his hard work that he very nearly lost _another_ finger for,” he commented in a jovial tone that sent another tremor of fear and revulsion down the She-Wolf of Winterfell’s spine. “Otherwise, I’ll make you clean it up yourself. Or maybe I’ll just make you eat it as punishment,” he growled.

Sansa shivered and bit her tongue. He could see in her eyes this one was an intelligent woman, able to recognize that Ramsay was clearly mocking Sansa, the intonations of his smooth, languid voice almost suggested a childlike curiosity, the way he genuflected, and his blue eyes became abnormally wide, with a glossy sheen.

He did not know what compelled him to do so, but he reached up a tender hand and began to stroke her cheek. The intimacy of such a simple gesture was more than enough to catch the Imp’s wife off guard and he could feel her shiver beneath his tender touch. Ramsay smirked, knowing what she felt. How the smoothness of his palms felt against her own pristine, smooth skin. The girl could only manage a breathy squeak of surprise as Ramsay let out a growl and seized her left wrist, shoving her up even harder against the pillar.

She winced as the pair of them heard a muscle in her back crack. No doubt he had accidentally caused the She-Wolf to pull a back muscle. But no matter now. It was when his future bride clenched her eyes shut and violently wrenched her head to the side that Ramsay felt a sudden shift within himself and wildly begin to rage and burn his insides. Was he really _that_ despicable? So repulsive that she could not bear to look him in the eyes?

Apparently so. He growled with the effort to restrain himself, and his grip tightened. “You’re going to do what I say, Stark, if you value keeping that pretty little face of yours intact. If you do not do as I say, then I'm going to destroy your face and make you one ugly little whore,” Ramsay barked harshly, whispering it into the shell of her delicate ear. The light in Lord Tyrion’s bedchambers, at least, in this early hour of the morn, was entirely too dim, and Sansa could barely make out Ramsay Bolton’s features, though now, his blue eyes seemed to almost glow black in color, and she shuddered. This man in front of her really was the Demon, the Devils Incarnate.

“Do I need to say it again? _Do not move_. There is nothing to fear with me, milady, and relax. You will enjoy. Don’t make me say it a second time, Sansa. I really _hate_ saying it a second time,” Ramsay growled, leaning in so that the tip of his nose was touching hers. He fought off the inappropriate urge to touch it.

To trail his finger along her lips. To feel how she moved in a kiss, to learn for himself if Sansa Stark’s lips were as really as soft as they looked. When Sansa did not respond to his commands, he grew even angrier. “I can provide a much more comfortable home and a life back for you. You could come home to Winterfell. With me,” he added. “The world will not get any better for you.”

Still. Sansa Stark did not seem at all fazed by Ramsay’s threats, which only caused the ache and unbearable heat pooling between his legs to whelm and throb. “Let _go_ of me, you—you witless little worm! Accursed Beast!” Sansa screamed, making sure her voice carried and reverberated off the room’s walls.

Ramsay watched at the young redheaded woman flinched, clearly cursing herself, not able to determine where that little outburst had come from, but the very words had poured out of her mouth like a vile, bitter black, putrid poison before she could even think about stopping herself and making her situation worse for herself. He felt the girl flinch as he reached up his free hand not currently maintaining his vice grip upon her waist and tucked back a lock of auburn hair that had fallen like a curtain in front of her face, effectively shielding her view from him. And that, he could simply not allow. She needed to see him.

“You are a feisty little She-Wolf, aren’t you?” Ramsay chuckled darkly. “You see, milady,” he began, clearing his throat and adapting the persona of someone more serious for a moment. “I don’t think you understand the gravity of your…current situation. I am afraid that you do not have a choice in this regard.”

“There’s _always_ a choice!” spat Sansa Stark, shivering underneath his touch, and actively refusing to meet the man’s gaze, which set Ramsay’s blood aflame.

“Oh, yes,” agreed Ramsay, allowing the mocking, condescending tones to creep back into his voice. His hand curled into a fist over a chunk of her hair and he violently tugged on it, yanking her head back and exposing the girl’s throat. He growled in appreciation and traced the pads of his fingers over the column of Stark’s throat, relishing in feeling her tremble beneath him. Good. She ought to be scared. “You can stay here in King’s Landing to rot in a prison cell for the remainder of your miserable days married to that wretched little dwarf.” Here, Ramsay spat the last word as though it were poison that had settled on his tongue.

“Or?” Sansa’s gaze was wrathful, but fearful, and Ramsay decided he liked it.

“ _Or_ ,” he emphasized, his grip on her wrist tightening, “you can come with me back to Winterfell. Of your own volition. We will marry, you will sire me an heir, two or three, it matters not. You will be mine and mine alone, and I will give you a good life, Lady Stark. I can promise you that. Much better than the accursed little wretch of an Imp can provide for you. You will rule at my side. As _Queen_. Queen of the entire North. You would like that, wouldn't you, sweet little dove? My angel of fire....” He watched, pleased, as his words hit their mark as Sansa’s head whiplashed sharply upwards as her mind struggled to process Ramsay’s words.

“We’re all we have. People like you and I. We share a similar trait in common, little wench, like it or not. Both discarded, cast aside by our families.”

Sansa bristled at the disrespectful insult just given to her by Lord Ramsay Bolton and her shoulders hunched and she bared her teeth in anger. She was not at all familiar with this unfamiliar feeling that was different to what she had felt last night with Joffrey in the banquet hall, that began as a hot fire-seed of anger deep within the uncomfortable pit that had started to form in her stomach, but his last insult was the breaking point of Sansa’s patience in waiting for help to come.

At the moment, she was blinded by anger that completely engulfed and overpowered that of her fear for the Beast of Bolton currently standing in front of her. The rage tasted bitter in her mouth, but yet somehow, it was strangely satisfying. Sansa was somehow (albeit miraculously) able to free her arm from Ramsay’s grasp and drew her arm back as far as she could possibly take it.

She had already punched a King, so what was the difference if it was a Lord? The pain immediately flared and blazed up her arm as her tiny fist connected with Ramsay Bolton’s chiseled jaw. She hadn’t been thinking clearly when she let out her boiling anger and swung her fist. Again. By the Light of the Seven, how many men was she going to be forced to hit in her life?

The impact was like a thousand venomous blades piercing apart her clammed fist. It let her to one conclusion. That it hurt like hell. Sansa felt her lips part open in shock as she drew her fist back and rubbed it gingerly.

Already she could feel it beginning to purple and bruise. By the Gods, hitting Ramsay’s face had been like hitting a chunk of stone. Ramsay merely laughed at her pitiful attempt at retaliation, which chilled the poor girl’s insides to ice. “Is that all?” he jeered, sounding like he was thoroughly enjoying himself. “I have never met a woman like you before, Stark. The last She-Wolf has fire in her. I like that. Good. Then this will be easy for me. You’ll make a fine wife to me, soon, love. You’ll come to see things my way soon enough, Lady Sansa.”

Sansa swallowed hard as she found her voice…and her inner resolve. When she finally spoke, even she was surprised at the coldness laced throughout her normally, kind, quiet voice.

“My _name_ ,” she whisper hissed through gritted teeth, balling her hands into fists at her side as she continued retreating from Ramsay, “is Sansa Stark. **SANSA**. _Not_ _wench, not girl, not bitch or whore, or whatever else_ you call the women in your life, _Beast_.” She let out a growl from the back of her throat, taking two steps towards Ramsay Bolton, waves of adrenaline coursing through her veins, jabbing a sharp finger in his thick, burly chest and propelling the young lord who towered over her back, and she was surprised to feel him move with it.

Clearly, Bolton had not been expecting her to fight back.

“As long as you are in my presence, if you wish for me to treat you with _any_ semblance of kindness or respect, though after what you just attempted to do to me, you do not deserve it,” she demanded angrily, cheeks flushing high with color, “then you’ll start to call me by my name. _Sansa_. Start using it, Bolton…”

Sansa whirled around on her heel and clutched at her middle, making to turn away and storm out of her and her little lord husband’s bedchambers, but not before Ramsay let out a low guttural growl from the back of his throat and a horrible roar that sounded more like the snarling of a savage wolf or hound.

His holler reverberated in Sansa’s ears like a clap of thunder, such was his rage, but that was what this little bitch was doing to him. Nobody— _nobody_ —spoke to him in a manner such as this and walked away from him unpunished.

A chill ran through Sansa’s spine as she whirled around, just in time to see Bolton rushing her, one hand on the hilt of his dagger, his fingers twitching.

Adrenaline coursed through her bloodstream, pumping, and beating through her veins as though it were trying to escape. Sansa thought as though her heart would explode, and her blue eyes were wide with fear, and her feet felt rooted to the linoleum floor beneath her bare feet, icy and frigid, rendering them numb.

Her body was screeching at her to run, but instead, Sansa remained rooted to her spot like a deer caught in the sights of an arrow, utterly paralyzed by fear.

There was only one thing she could do. Pray Bolton did not kill her. A muscle in Sansa’s jaw twitched and she clenched her eyes tightly shut, a low moan escaping her lips, twisting her face and turning it to the right while she waited for the inevitable backhanded blow of the man’s hand that would send her sprawling.

Or the dagger in her heart. Whichever. Whatever. His hands instead reached out for her waist, coming to rest and grip painfully tight and the atmosphere around her seemed to rush by a blur as she heard herself scream for help.

“Someone, _please_! **BRONN**! **TYRION**! **THEON**!” she screamed frantically, amazed she could even summon the strength within her lungs to cry out. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes, stinging, and blurring her vision, making it almost impossible for Sansa to discern where he was. Sansa let out a muffled yelp as she felt the strength in her legs leave her as she was violently shoved forward.

The bedroom around the two of them rushed by in a blur and Sansa knew the pain was coming. Her body twisted and jerked at the waist as she fell. Time seemed to slow down whenever you fell. In the seconds it took Sansa Stark to reach the floor, she knew it was going to hurt. She whimpered as she knew the pain was coming. It went by fast, yet slow, almost suspended, frozen in time.

Then a hard impact as she felt the back of her skull hit the floor. Sansa cried out in pain as she felt her left ankle move in a way that it should not and felt an incredibly warm pressure and she stifled her scream as the appendage twisted.

Definitely not broken, at least not that she could tell, but sprained, which would present quite the problem for her at Joffrey’s wedding feast in a few days.

Sansa bit down instinctively on her tongue and tasted the metallic coppery blood that lingered on her tongue as she bit down hard to keep from screaming.

Ramsay was yelling something incoherent, sounding distant yet near at the same time. Without even having to look, Sansa could feel the cut above her brow from where Lord Bolton’s ruby ring had caught her during the scuffle, and beads of crimson, garish red in color dripped onto the tile. She did not dare to move.

Anything to delay the part where she took in what she looked like now on the morning after her wedding night. Torn skin, twisted ankle, and bleeding.

 _What if…what if the others see this and they think Tyrion did it?_ Her conscience felt like it was racing a mile a minute, and Sansa could feel the bile rising at the back of her throat and coating it in the thick bitter stomach acidic.

Sansa tried to pinpoint exactly where it was that Ramsay had disappeared to, for the first thing she noticed as she lay helpless on the ground at the foot of her and Tyrion’s marriage bed was that his strong hands no longer held her waist captive. But when she feebly moved to attempt to sit up, let alone stand, it was quickly proven futile as another fiery pain pulsated from her ankle and shot up her leg, feeling like it was numbing her entire side. Sansa groaned and lay there.

“Not—not getting up anytime soon,” she panted through gritted teeth, eyes clenched shut. “J—just…leave me here. Let me lay here and bleed. It’ll be good for me,” she whispered to no one in particular. She opted to lay as still as possible on the ground, face closed in a twisted, painful grimace, her pale skin growing pallid and clammy, beads of sweat forming on her brows as she gasped for air.

Her blue eyes froze over like the surface of a winter puddle, robbing them of their usual warmth as she struggled and fought against the haze of blackness, the ebbs and flows of nausea waves that washed over her body in unceasing tides.

Sharp pains lanced through her head and colorful spots flashed in front of her vision, momentarily blinding her. It felt like her whole body had been beaten and every movement, especially the slightest twitch in her ankle, ached terribly.

Regardless, she needed to get out of here, away from Ramsay, find Tyrion… But…how could she even crawl her way to freedom if she could barely stand upright, let alone think of a cohesive thought when she was in so much pain? Wincing in pain, she attempted to grab onto a nearby wooden side table but cried out in pain and quickly lowered her arm and collapsed back onto the floor.

Putting strain on her ankle was not wise for the time being, she decided. Blearily, Sansa lifted her head and tried to focus her gaze more than a few feet in front of herself to focus on whatever was happening with Ramsay Bolton now. She could just barely make out a figure, and whoever it was, was _huge_. Not as big as the Mountain or any other knight she had ever seen, but in her hazy vision, Sansa could not discern who it was that had come to her rescue and saved her from whatever Ramsay had been about to do to her.

Either that, or perhaps the dimly lit candlelight from the candelabras scattered about through various points of her and Lord Tyrion’s bedroom were casting a distorted shadow nearby where someone, thank the gods, had Ramsay backed in a corner. Sansa fought to keep her eyes open, the Bolton’s man’s holler of rage causing the hairs on the back of her neck to stand upright, having forced her from her state of semi consciousness for just a brief moment. She thought she could have sworn she saw Tyrion’s concerned face, hovering over hers and something warm drape over her form, and she quickly came to realize that he had covered her with a cloak that was much too big and long to belong to him, so then this belonged to someone else, though who that someone was, remained a mystery to Sansa.

Trough the fog swirling in her mind as the darkness of unconsciousness threatened to take her, she could see the tall figure towering in front of her and Tyrion, protecting them. Protecting her. Sansa let out a tiny groan as it escaped her lips as she fought to lift her head, though Tyrion’s low murmurings into the shell of her ear advised her against moving so suddenly, and she felt his hands grip onto the back of her skull as he moved to allow Sansa’s head to rest in his lap, his fingers raking through her hair in an effort to comfort and reassure her.

Sansa fought to lift her head, against Tyrion’s urging that she not move, though even the simple gesture of just that throbbed and pounded against the back of her skull from where she had hit her head in the fall following the twisting of her ankle. The Gods were good to her and had answered her silent prayers, and had sent her Tyrion and…someone _else_ , someone bigger, stronger.

Though she did not doubt her husband’s ability to effectively deal with the boorish fiend of a dog that was Ramsay Bolton, she knew his strengths were his mind and other attributes, he did not possess the skills of a warrior in battle. Even that thought, however, Sansa tended to doubt, for if the rumors were true, if what Ser Bronn had told her last night held even an inkling of truth, then Tyrion had once killed a man with a _shield_ , all to protect Lady Catelyn, so she felt he could hold his own if worse ever came to worse one day, and he might have to, Sansa realized shakily. He’d be unstoppable with his dagger or his axe.

Aye, but gods, how she wished she could look upon her other savior’s face, though it hurt too much just to lift her head, and if she was being honest with herself, she enjoyed the softness that Tyrion’s lap provided. It certainly beat resting her head against the cold tile of the linoleum floor, that much was true. And he was warm. So very warm.

Sansa furrowed her brows into a frown and struggled to see, squinting her eyes to hopefully get a better look at her rescuer.

What little she could see of him, however, was…odd. He was huge, bulky. Yes, _odd_. There was no other way to describe Tyrion’s companion, though if she had been known they would expect guests this morning, she would have asked her new handmaiden, Shae, to ensure the chambers were cleaned, that they could sit on the balcony terrace for fresh air while they broke their fast.

The way this new stranger was standing seemed rather peculiar, and when the tall blonde man lunged forward seemingly in an effort to protect her from Ramsay as the wild savage man that resembled more beast than man stepped forward, it was revealed to Sansa, however blurred, that the new stranger walked with a rather lumbering, awkward gait, but Sansa had absolutely no time to get a better look as everything became fuzzy, and then the poor girl saw nothing at all.

Her consciousness drifted, a horrible ringing in her ears that deafened her, which muffled the sound of Ramsay Bolton’s incessant yells, and Tyrion’s words. Through the darkness as the thick wave of sweet, blissful relief reached for her with its blackened arms outstretched, as if greeting a long-lost lover, Sansa’s heartbeats pounded loudly against the confines of her chest, so damn _loud_ that she was surprised Tyrion could not hear it as he barked orders. Her heartbeats echoed in her eardrums, alongside fading pleas for help and for Tyrion to not leave her side.

And then…the feeling in her body drained away until all was black, and she was not awake to feel herself being lifted in a pair of very strong arms.


	10. Ramsay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhh...Slight warning I guess for language? Ramsay especially in this story is a trash mouth lol, but I put the warnings in the tags so Idk if it's really needed here, but putting it in here again, just in case.

** Ramsay  **

Hate and enmity brimmed up in Ramsay’s heart, fury itself burning him up for the way he had been so utterly humiliated by the prickly little Stark bitch, who, even he had to admit it, was something of a budding beauty. The best he had seen in years, though given his selection of suitable women to marry up in the North were limited to perhaps a couple dozen, he could say with certainty that there was no finer woman than Sansa Stark of Winterfell. This She-Wolf. There was something about Sansa that set his blood aflame, rendered the girl irresistible to him.

Maybe it was her cute slender nose or her red hair, so striking against skin so pale, suited the girl’s graceful features quite well, highlighting her sharp jawline and good cheekbones she had inherited from Lady Catelyn Stark. And her eyes! By the gods, her eyes! The Stark woman’s eyes were the oceans, so full of life, yet so…uncertain. The blue-green hue carried her emotional currents, and from the moment the Imp’s precious little wife had glanced his way once or twice the other night in the banquet hall, he had found himself ensnared in her net of intrigue. Which made the way the bitch had rejected him all the more humiliating and embarrassing for Roose’s son.

Clearly, this little cunt did not know exactly whom it was she was dealing with. One way or another, Ramsay knew he would make the girl see the truth, that she was destined to be her Queen, and he…he would become her _god_. Ramsay had heard the tension and intensity in the redheaded Stark woman’s voice as she had so very coldly rejected him without any regard for his feelings.

There was a great deal of emotion behind the bitch’s words. Ramsay had fully been about to show the little whore just what happened to women in Westeros who failed to learn their place around their men. He hated the idea of destroying her angelic little face and marking her unblemished skin, having no other choice but to ruin the gods’ masterpiece that was Sansa Stark, but he had to punish her.

His idea of punishment was firm and fair and a good deal fairer than what King Joffrey would do to the bitch if he were to learn of the scuffle _she_ started.

Ramsay yanked Lady Catelyn’s eldest daughter by her wrist. She had fallen and twisted her ankle when he’d shoved her forward with more force than he’d initially wanted, and for just a brief moment, he felt a twinge of…something, prick at his heartstrings, but he quickly shoved aside the inappropriate thought.

 _Good_. That would make this little ‘counseling session’ of theirs easier. Ramsay had been all logic and feigned cool detachment until he touched the girl’s skin. _So creamy and soft…Mine_ , he thought wildly, and let out a growl.

“Don’t…” she murmured, her soft, timid voice just barely above a whisper, like a soft susurration, a summer breeze. Sansa Stark turned her head sharply to the right to avoid looking Ramsay in the eyes, though his hand on her waist was the only thing keeping her from crumpling back to the floor, thanks to her ankle.

He clucked his tongue in mock disappointment and shook his head in feigned disgust. “Look at you, Lady Sansa. You are a mess. See what you have made me do.” Ramsay ignored her quiet pleas, eyes shut, face rigid, tears pouring down her cheeks in graceful tracts in a steady flow that showed no signs of stopping.

Lord Roose Bolton’s son moved in close enough for his angel of fire to feel his strong body through her dress and smallclothes, hands loose at his sides.

Ramsay heard Sansa’s breathing become deeper, her posture growing more rigid and tense at the unexpected closeness and intimacy as he closed off the gap of space. All it took was one scathing look of revulsion and hatred from the Imp’s wife as the Bolton Bastard cupped her chin in his hand and tilted the girl’s head upwards, forcing Sansa Stark to meet his gaze. He wanted to be able to look at her while he fucked her, to see those bewitching blue eyes that glinted and shone in the light like sapphires, truly beautiful. The little dwarf did not deserve her.

“Don’t worry, darling Sansa,” Ramsay whispered soothingly, leaning down to whisper it in the shell of her ear. “You will enjoy what follows next. I swear.”

He reached up a now-shaking hand and stroked her auburn hair, like the ember flames of a fire and just as bright. So soft, silky smooth, and something floral that smelled like lavender and honeysuckle reached his nostrils when he bent down his head and buried his nose in Sansa Stark’s hair. Truly intoxicating. _Just like her_ , he thought, clenching his eyes shut. Then something dormant not only stirred in Ramsay, but it took over his thinking and dominated him. The rest of his world became an unimportant blur that was banished from the far recesses of his mind. The only thing that mattered was fucking the girl until she screamed his name, to loosen her tight walls and feel himself inside of her.

He wanted the Stark woman on her back, on top, any way that he could fuck her, really. To claim her fully as his wife, and she would be _his_. _No one else’s_. Any man that dared to try to touch would soon find themselves relieved of their cock and their balls stuffed down their throats to choke to death on them. As Ramsay continued having these wild thoughts of the young woman. To touch her more, to kiss her mouth. He tugged slightly at the skirts of her green gown and the lacing of her bodice, trying to be as gentle as possible with the bitch’s clothing, but seven fucking hells, it was hard! His hands were made for the flaying of his victims, for winning the hunt, for the grunt work, fighting in the front lines in war, not in attempting to be gentle in undoing the strings of a woman’s dress. Ramsay let out a growl of frustration, and yanked at one of the strings with his teeth, but before he could so much as make another move to lift the rapidly fading unconscious woman in his arms to carry her away somewhere more private, he heard a startled shout from behind him that was foreign to him.

A chill ran through Ramsay’s spine, which at first, he thought impressive, considering not many had the ability to make him feel unsettled like this, as he heard the low warning growl coming from directly behind him, and saw the shadow. A man stood behind him, that much he could tell by the silhouette.

Ramsay rolled his eyes to himself as he turned around to face the intruder, and he blinked owlishly as he found himself staring face-to-face with one of the tallest men that he had ever seen, and Ramsay visibly cringed and tried to look away from the hideousness that was assaulting his eyes. For just a brief moment, he wished he were blind so that he would not have to look upon this accursed man’s unsightly visage and—and—Ramsay squinted his eyes, having to be sure.

By Gods. The man…was…a _woman_. His cobalt blue eyes flung open in the shock as the realization hit him like he had been doused in ice water. Yes. This person in front of him was a woman. One ugly bitch, at that.

“What in the seven fucking hells—” he started to say and was immediately cut off his air supply as the creature’s strong gloved hand came to wrap around the column of his throat and lift him several feet up off the air.

Equally impressive. He would have to make this cunt a member of his Father’s guards. Despite his throat’s passageways currently closing off as he coughed and struggled to breathe, he could not help but to get a good look at this strange woman. Tall, muscular, rather broad, and flat-chested, and ungainly. Her straw length hair was brittle and short, almost as short as Ramsay’s but a little bit longer, well over six feet tall. At least a head taller than himself. Her mouth wide and lips swollen, and her nose was twisted in a grotesque to the right and bent, suggesting to Ramsay that it had been broken in a fight more than once, at best.

Perhaps the only redeeming quality of this abomination that the gods dared to call a woman in front of him was the bitch’s brilliant blue eyes, though Ramsay believed Sansa’s to be bluer. The female’s skin was dry, with small speckling’s of freckles sprinkled about her nose like confetti. Her eyebrows curved in swooping arches over her eyes and her huge, broken nose brought attention to her wide forehead and blunt chin. These features would not turn any man’s heads or make anyone look twice except to say how ugly the cunt was, Ramsay believed.

Ramsay let out a startled groan as he felt his body being tossed into the air, where his back collided against the very same white marble pillar that he’d pinned the Stark woman against. Fitting, really. He groaned and struggled to rise to his feet, cringing and blearily trying to focus his gaze a few feet in front of himself, his vision coming back to him in ebbs and waves, like the ocean’s tide.

There was a horrible scream that forced its way from the blonde bitch’s mouth, as if the wench’s soul had unleashed some sort of inner demon within.

The golden-haired woman’s face was contorted into a truly twisted grimace as she stalked towards Ramsay, her brilliant blue eyes flashing and darkening, almost cerulean in color, losing their warmth, narrowed in rage, her thin lips pursed into a rigid line, her pale face gaunt and immobile out of sheer rage.

“ _What is the meaning of this_?” came another voice, the Imp’s, and it must have been the fact that Ramsay was unable to keep his victorious smirk from forming and twitching across his handsome features as he heard the dwarf’s holler of anguish at seeing his pretty little wife crumpled in a heap on the floor.

The woman holding Ramsay’s throat hostage barely glanced at the dwarf, seemingly only having eyes for her new prisoner. “ _Not one word_ ,” she hissed.

The dwarf asked a question again, which commanded her attention.

“She is still alive, milord,” the blonde-haired woman spoke curtly and her tone calm, though there was no mistaking the undertones of rage, her voice deeper than most, and it was no wonder this cunt had chosen to pursue the path that she had. _A body like that and a voice to beat, the life of the Silent Sisters isn’t for this one_ , Ramsay thought, his blue eyes widening in shock and utter horror.

Ramsay’s smirk grew, stretching across his features as he watched as the blonde’s free hand not currently wrapped around his throat ripped her cloak and tossed it to the dwarf, who caught it midair and draped the heavy thing over Stark’s limp and un-moving form. The bitch’s strong fist came up and clenched into a fist, her knuckles white with the effort to restrain herself, and the woman’s nails dug deeply into the palms of her hand. Ramsay let out a startled yell, though his was of anger and surprise, less so fear, as he felt himself being lifted to his feet a second time and violently shoved against the pillar, and before he could so much as fathom what was happening, the woman’s grotesque, unsightly face was merely inches away from his, the tip of her nose touching his, and was an abomination to look at, and yet, Ramsay found he could not tear his gaze away.

“I did not hurt her, Lord Tyrion,” Ramsay stated calmly, setting his face to one of neutral impassiveness. His only way out of this unharmed was for this cunt to overestimate his skill level, to assume that his lack of fear came from mastery, instead of raw nerve, which, even Ramsay could see when he was outmatched.

This…this _beast_ of a woman outweighed him and was several heads taller.

“You can let me go now. I will…show myself out,” he heard himself speak. Ramsay squirmed underneath the golden-haired woman’s hold, but the bitch curled her strong fist even tighter around Ramsay’s throat, cutting off his air.

It quickly became clear to Ramsay that he was not going anywhere this vicious fucking brute of a woman did not want him to and judging by the stony look in Lord Tyrion’s eyes, he was not quite finished yet with him, either.

Ramsay swallowed hard past the lump in his throat and felt both of his hands come up to desperately claw at the woman’s hand currently holding his throat hostage. “No. I don’t think so, Lord Bolton,” came the Imp’s voice, the edges of his voice hardened. Ramsay almost lazily swiveled his head to look in the general direction of the dwarf’s voice, and the very sight of the young beauty’s head in the Imp’s lap, her form covered by the golden-haired woman’s cloak was enough to reignite the passionate flames of fury welling deep within Ramsay’s blood.

“What kind of man beats a helpless girl?” the dwarf growled through gritted teeth, balling his short, stubby hands into fists at his side, though he made no move to get up off the floor, nor remove the Stark girl’s head from his lap.

It seemed he was afraid the possibility of moving would do more harm to his lady wife than good. A sudden gush of pain jolted through Ramsay’s body. His stomach ached and his arms lost the tension that had been steadily building within and his legs began to weaken. _This—this bitch will not get the better of me_ , he thought, as he felt the woman’s curled fist which had seized fistfuls of his jerkin begin to slacken and she dropped him to the floor. Hard. His tongue was soaked in the iron taste of blood, the metallic tang lingering in Ramsay’s nostrils.

Ramsay watched out of the corner of his eyes, the blonde-haired bitch still hovering over him, one hand on the hilt of her sword, which rested idle at her hip.

 _Valyrian steel_ , he thought, and his gaze flitted between the cunt and the dwarf. He watched, awestruck and momentarily unafraid, as the female straightened her posture and rose to her full height, and looked down her twisted, broken nose at Ramsay. “What in the gods’ name were you _thinking_ , milord?” she snapped coldly. “You do not enter a woman’s room with an invitation, _man_ ,” she spat, spitting at Ramsay’s boots, clearly disgusted with his lack of decorum.

“ _Give me one good reason_ ,” the woman growled through clenched teeth and rooted jaw as she knelt, squatting on the floor, a difficult task in a full suit of armor, “ _why I should not kill you right here and now,”_ she snarled angrily.

Ramsay looked to Lord Tyrion and felt his wicked smile falter and evaporate like the rain in winter. He had, in the few precious days of having known the Imp personally, never seen the little dwarf look like this, who had not left Sansa’s side. His kind blue eyes had a deadness, a stillness, his orbs having developed an impenetrable hardness. It was as if Ramsay could read everything that the Imp blamed Lord Roose Bolton’s son for, currently the state of his wife, in one extended glare and forgiveness for Ramsay was no longer an option anymore.

Not that he had been expecting to receive it, but still. “You deserve whatever’s coming your way, Bolton,” growled the Imp, having to crane his neck upward to give the golden-haired woman in the suit of armor a silent, curt nod. “Do not look to the gods to help you out of this one, bastard. You’ve brought this upon yourself.” He nodded again to the towering woman, who let out another vicious growl from the back of her throat and returned her attention to Ramsay.

When at last the bitch turned to face Ramsay, the man wished the woman would have just kept her trance fixated upon the Imp and his pretty little wife.

Deliberation was fucking over. The woman had judged Bolton already and all it took was one more glance over at the unconscious young redhead sprawled out in a crumpled heap on the floor of their bedchambers, who was still unmoving and unresponsive to Tyrion’s gentle attempts to rouse her, for her rage to return.

For the bitch’s blue eyes to show hatred. But it was much more than that.

“You are lucky that Lord Tyrion is here,” the woman growled, “for if it were just you and I, I would carve your black, rotten little heart from your life and feed it to the stray hounds and watch as your vicious hell hounds choke to death on it. I do not wish to spill blood in milady’s chambers, so…” She paused, hissing the words that tumbled unchecked from her mouth, her fingers twitching.

“We shall let you leave from here alive. Though whether or not you will still be in one piece with all your limbs intact after Brienne is done with you, that remains to be seen. I should have you killed for what you have done to my wife, Bastard, but…I am not a monster like my nephew. Still. I cannot let this go unpunished and for that…” Tyrion interjected, and even Ramsay blinked in surprise and the golden-haired woman still holding his throat hostage swiveled her head around to regard the little lord so fast that Ramsay had to move his head backward quickly to avoid connecting it. “But first,” he growled, and Ramsay swallowed hard past the lump forming in his throat as he watched as the Imp’s hand curled into the back of his wife’s hair and tugged on it slightly.

The dwarf glanced down at his wife’s unconscious form in his lap and when he lifted his chin to meet Ramsay’s gaze, he silently nodded to the blonde woman. “But first,” he repeated, his tone shaking slightly. “I have some bad news for you, Lord Bolton. I apologize, but… _this is it_. The end of the line for you, you vicious little cunt. But before that happens, you’ll have to apologize for all the mischief you’ve caused. Isn’t that _right_?” he whisper-hissed. “Now you’re going to kneel before me and beg forgiveness for what you have done to Sansa.”

The laugh that interrupted Lord Tyrion came from Ramsay Bolton like a newly sprung leak—timid at first, stopping and starting. He wasn’t done yet, though. The Imp and the golden-haired woman could tell by the way he bit his lip. From deep inside Bolton’s chest came a great shaking motion and his facial muscles grew tight. The dwarf furrowed his brows into a frown and waited.

Ramsay blinked back tears of maniacal laughter. “You’re pretty funny—”

“ **I SAID KNEEL**!” There was something in that shout of the dwarf’s, a pain behind it that caused even the golden-haired woman to look twice at the man.

Ramsay watched. He watched the dwarf’s eyes. Then Bolton knew. The anger was nothing but a shield for the creature’s pains, like a soldier cornered, scared for his life, blindly firing arrows, and he let out a startled cry of surprise as the young woman was quick to pry the edged cutlass from her opponent’s swollen fingers and whipped around to clash steel. _Goddamn it_. She had seen his hand carefully inch its way towards the sheath around his waist, moving for it.

The golden-haired woman held the blade even. A perfect, undaunted horizon; always leveled with the nose, just as someone had taught her. A father, teacher.

She stalled Ramsay’s strike, but watched a wretched, stained grin split the Bastard’s bleeding lips open as her blade of her own sword shivered under the brutality of his compelling strength. “Weapons do not belong in the hands of women,” he throatily taunted, pressing his dagger closer to the bitch’s face.

The blade flashed as he brought it down over his head and hummed a low, swift tune when he brought it down, and he screamed, dropping his dagger, where it clattered to the floor as he felt something hot licking the side of his arm.

Ramsay blinked, momentarily stunned at this yellow-haired cunt had gotten one over on him. His eyes came up to rest upon the woman’s face, not unblinking but slowed. Yet the effect was harsh. Perhaps it was her lips that gave away her intentions, that, were it not for the simple saving graces of Lady Sansa (knocked out though she was) and Lord Tyrion in the room with her, she’d have killed him.

Ramsay thought he could have walked away and ignored the bitch had it not been for her triumphant smirk. That little rise in the corner of her thin mouth, she was oblivious to the vicious death Ramsay was already planning for this cunt.

Feed her to his hounds…or better yet… _the bear pit_. Not only had this wretched monstrous cunt robbed Ramsay of his opportunity to share Sansa’s bed, but it was giving her inner delight to have wounded Lord Roose Bolton’s son.

She was…she was savoring the moment. Ramsay ground his teeth in anger, and before he could even stagger to his feet up off the floor, refusing to grovel at the Imp’s wretched little boots, Ramsay knew how, when, and where this cunt’s sorry little miserable life would end.

“You— _you fucking bitch_!” he growled, glancing down to determine the source of the uncomfortable burning sensation. A deep wound was sliced in the flesh of his upper right arm. It was heavily oozing blood and there was a bluish-purple bruise forming around it. Ramsay lightly pressed his index finger against the center of the gaping hole in his arm and sucked in a sharp breath as the pain spiraled all across his body. Colorful spots contoured the sides of his eyes and he had to bite his lip from the pain. “Seven fucking hells, I’m going to kill you!”

The golden-haired woman smirked, and it only infuriated Ramsay even further as her thick hands seized his jerkin in fistfuls and yanked him to his feet.

“I’m looking _forward_ to it,” she sneered, mocking him. “I take no pleasure in taking you down, Bolton. None. It’s just…good business. Necessary. You love to hurt, and you will not lay a single hand on Lady Stark or her lord husband ever again. If you are foolish enough to try, then…I shall do you the courtesy of ensuring that you never speak again by removing your head from your accursed little body.

“Listen to the lady now. Don’t want to get blood all over your pretty cloak, you dark-haired cunt,” came another voice, Ser Bronn’s as he lingered in the doorway, his lean frame resting against the door’s frame, picking at his nails.

The dark-haired bastard looked like he was fighting his urge to laugh at the fact that Lord Roose’s son had been bested and made a fool of by a _woman_.

“This…you think that this is cruelty, you bastard? What kind of man beats a helpless girl?” the blonde-haired woman growled as she huffed in frustration and swept a lock of hair out of her eyes. “This is far from cruelty. This is justice and mercy combined. You cannot control you and so I control you. Another word, _one more word_ out of your lips and I should bash your brains on this very floor until Lord Tyrion tells me to stop. _If_ he tells me to stop. You want to fight me? Go ahead. You already know that I will win. Or maybe you like gambling? _Try me_.”

Ser Bronn snorted, occasionally glancing up from his absent-minded nail preening to carefully study the humiliated Bastard of Roose Bolton from across the way. “Best hope the woman doesn’t draw her sword on you again, boy. Or it’s like to be _your_ corpse that we carry out instead. The wench is as strong as the Mountain and the Hound combined, though admittedly not so pretty as them.”

The golden-haired woman scrunched her nose and pulled a face at Lord Tyrion’s guard’s comment, though she made no retort. The blonde let out a warning growl from the back of her throat and roughly seized Ramsay by his sleeve, yanking him to his feet, either uncaring or ignoring the blood from his gaping arm wound seeping onto the tile at her foots, staining her shining armor.

“Get out of here,” the bitch growled lowly at Ramsay, threateningly, advancing on Ramsay’s retreating form as she violently shoved the young lord backward, the sheer force of her blow almost sending him sprawling to the ground. The woman’s cobalt blue eyes were like a knife in Ramsay’s ribs, the sharp point digging even deeper. There was nothing there but unbridled rage at the unspeakable event that had almost occurred with her lady’s bedchambers.

Perhaps the one place in all of King’s Landing that Lady Catelyn’s daughter was supposed to feel the safest, and Ramsay Bolton had almost taken that from her in addition to her virtue. This, it would seem, the golden-haired woman could not allow. The unmoving gaze of the bitch clad in armor and chain-mail was accompanied by deliberate slow breathing, like the wench was fighting back something and losing horribly as she advanced upon Ramsay’s retreating form.

“ _Get_. _Out_.” She growled threateningly. “A word of advice, _man_. You _really_ don’t want to upset me any further, Bolton. Get out of here,” she warned, flinging the door open to Lord Tyrion and Lady Sansa’s chambers, smirking as Ramsay fell onto the ground, no longer able to use the wooden door as form of back support. “Do not ever come near Lady Sansa again, for the next time you day to lay a hand on her, I won’t stop. You’ll find yourself without your hands and your beloved dick you hold in _such high regard_ shoved down your throat where you will choke a slow painful death on your own bodily fluids,” she hissed angrily.

Ramsay let out a guttural growl as the bitch dared to insult him and threw his body weight behind the fist that edged closer to his face. It hit his jaw with such force that blood pooled into his mouth. Pain erupted from the point of impact.

With the golden-haired woman’s own two hands, Ramsay Bolton watched, stunned, as she grasped his head in her hands and brought her kneecap up to his nose. There was a horrible blunt crack and she released his dark-haired head.

Crimson leaked from both his nostrils and now it was his nose that was twisted to the right. Ramsay screamed and drew his fist back again and it ploughed into the woman’s stomach, though it was like hitting a chunk of stone head on with the armor that she donned. The woman repaid this by punching Ramsay’s jaw, her strong fist collided with all of her body weight. She continued this battering until Ramsay Bolton fell to the floor, just outside of their chambers.

His chest gently rose and sank with each shallow, rattling breath he drew in. Ramsay visibly flinched as he felt his head hit the cold stone of the corridor and felt blood welling on his brow. He lifted his head blearily and turned to the side, spitting a mouthful of blood, screaming obscenities at the bitch who bested him.

 _Seven hells_. The need for revenge was like a rat gnawing at his soul, relentless, unceasing, it could only be stopped by the cold steel of a rat trap, a trap he would devise himself.

His need for revenge was like an abscess on the skin of the soul that could only be cured by the cruel sharp steel point of revenge. Festering like a septic wound, and the only effective antibiotic is cold hard revenge. Savage. Spiteful. A dish that was best served cold. Unforgiving. He would bare a grudge until he died or took revenge, whichever came first. Settling old scores. Brutal. Callous. Satisfying. Empty. Pointless. Excessive. Mean spirited. It appealed to his twisted and dark sense of humor.

It was these thoughts that Ramsay clung to and hung the shreds of what little sanity remained as he dove for the sweet, sweet blackness. Anything to escape the tide of pains this bitch had unleashed upon him. Ramsay knew he would faint whenever his stomach gave out. It felt like his innards were being replaced by some kind of horrible black hole, a void, almost. Then nausea crept from his abdomen to his head and the world went black.

 _Vicious blonde-haired fucking bitch cunt_ , he thought angrily through gritted teeth as his eyelids became heavy and he could no longer keep them open as he allowed himself to succumb to the darkness. _That bitch. I’ll fucking flay her. I’ll fucking kill her if it’s the last thing I do. Kill her. Kill him. Kill them all. Kill…_

Any handmaiden or guard in the hallway that happened to pass by the unconscious form of Ramsay Bolton that was unceremoniously dragged out of the way by Ser Bronn who happened to catch a glimpse of the broken Bastard of Bolton’s face looked the other way in fear, for when their gaze lingered on his, they would see the faintest ghost of a smile flitting across the Bastard’s face…


	11. Brienne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next 2 chapters are Sanrion so lots of sweet moments to break up all the coming winds of the winter storm! :)

**Brienne **

Brienne exhaled a frustrated, shaking breath and raked her strong hands through her hair and stifled a groan of disbelief as adrenaline still surged through her bloodstream, hot as molten lava. How in the name of the Light of the Seven this cretin that had narrowly avoided Death and the gates of the Seven Hells at Brienne's literal hand to sneak his way past the guards was beyond Brienne of Tarth's ability to comprehend such a claim.

Brienne really didn't think she could explain what had just happened to anyone else. Not even if her own life depended on it, which thank the gods, it didn't. One minute she had been helping Lady Stark's little lord husband try to carry the two trays of food one of the kitchen wenches had prepared for the two of them, listening to the Imp fret over what he figured his new little wife would like to eat while they broke their fast, and that was what had taken so damn long in the kitchens, that he did not know what she liked, you see.

Only to return to their chambers with the door ajar and no guards to be found, and the pair had entered Lord Tyrion's chambers to find… _that_. The Bolton's hand halfway up the skirts of Sansa's gown and resting on her thigh. Brienne had heard a crash resounding from within, her ears had perked up at the disturbance.

It had been enough for Brienne's fingers to twitch, hovering over the hilt of her sword, and she had felt the edges of her voice harden as she ordered the Imp to remain in the hallway, and not to enter unless she commanded her lord to.

The desperation that had lingered in the scream Sansa Stark had dared to utter was practically heartbreaking. Enough that the little dwarf had not heeded Brienne's commands as Lady Sansa's self-appointed protector and knight.

Well. No Knight was she, though that did not stop Brienne from hoping. All it had taken was witnessing the Bastard of Bolton shoving the petite, fragile redheaded woman to the ground for the last vestiges of Brienne's temper to snap and she had lunged, not even fully thinking, her body no longer taking directions from her mind. So now, she stood. Or knelt, rather. Ramsay Bolton, son of Roose was dealt with for now, and so help that wretched little cunt if he ever dared to show his face to Lady Stark while in Brienne's presence again. Or Lord Tyrion's.

Tyrion Lannister held knelt to the ground and was struggling to lift the girl from where she lay crumpled on the ground. Hesitantly, Brienne gingerly inched forward for a closer look and drew in a sharp breath as she assessed Sansa's condition. "What in god's name did he do to you?" Tyrion growled angrily.

He seemed to have eyes only for Lady Sansa, running his fingers through her auburn tresses, not even caring that the poor girl was knocked out cold, it seemed.

The Imp had wasted no time in moving from the door's entryway towards where Sansa lay, upon disobeying Brienne's direct command to remain in the hall. The commotion was coming from his bedroom, and Sansa had been asleep.

Brienne had watched Sansa's little lord husband practically sway precariously before rushing towards the young woman's unconscious form near the foot of their marriage bed on the floor. How anguished her name sounded coming from him.

"Sansa? Sansa?!" The dwarf watched in growing horror as Lady Stark's azure blue eyes slowly fluttered, as if seeming to register he was standing in front of her, and then closed. Her breathing, which had been coming to her lungs in such short, rapid spurts, as though her lungs could not get enough air in, slowed to an almost snail's pace, a petty crawl, and her already pale face whitened yet another shade.

The little lord was so absorbed in gingerly prodding Sansa's side, checking for a pulse and being careful to mind her head as it rested in her lap that he did not even seem to notice Brienne come to stand behind him.

Seeming to completely forget Brienne or Ser Bronn completely, Brienne watched, biting the wall of her cheek, as the man reluctantly stood, being as delicately as possible to lay Sansa Stark's head on the floor and struggle to lift her. Brienne furrowed her light blonde brows into a frown as she craned her neck forward to better get a look at Lady Catelyn's daughter.

Even in the dark of the room, you could see the Imp's bride, like a shining beacon of bright light. The white creamy tone of her skin reminded Brienne of the moon, and she could not help but to wonder if she reached down and out to touch Lady Stark, to caress her cheek and check for signs of life, a pulse, movement, anything, if her skin was as soft as it looked, and would her hand only graze the air.

As if she were nothing but a ghost. Tyrion grunted and huffed in frustration in his vain efforts to get the girl to budge. He lifted his head and shot a silent, pleading look to Brienne, a helpless look in his cobalt blue eyes, which were beginning to moisten and glisten with what looked to be un-shed salty tears.

Strange. Brienne of Tarth could never recall a single time when a Lannister Lion had ever shed a single tear. Brienne glanced back down on the floor towards where Sansa Stark's unconscious form still lay, the only indication that she was still alive was the slow rising and falling of her chest, and occasionally, she would mumble something incoherent, and a couple of times her delicate eyelashes fluttered, allowing for Brienne and Tyrion to get a look at her eyes.

Blue eyes. Gorgeous and crystal clear, like the sea on a summer day back in the Isle of Tarth, or the sky after a fresh rainfall when the sun came from behind the clouds. Brienne blinked, startled out of her moment as the little lord huffed in frustration and let out a low warning growl.

" _Well_?" Tyrion snapped harshly, a bark to his normally kind tone, though Brienne and Bronn both exchanged a dark look, knowing his sudden hostility did not come from a place of malice, but concern. " _Are you just going to stand there_? Wh—what are you _waiting_ for? Help me with her!" he pleaded, biting his bottom lip. "I—I can't…carry her. Sh—she's too heavy for me to carry her anywhere, but she needs medical attention!"

Brienne blinked owlishly at the little lord then back down to Sansa, having been startled out of her reverie as her thoughts wandered and her adrenaline from the little encounter with the Bastard of Bolton settling to a mere simmer in her veins instead of the boiling rage that had coursed through her veins moments ago.

She had completely forgotten Lady Stark was hurt. Moving quickly as best she could, Brienne knelt into a low crouch by Sansa's unconscious form, and with the help Tyrion and Bronn, gingerly lifted Sansa bridal style into her arms, which felt weird, but Brienne swallowed back the lump in her throat and tried to control her shaking rage. Ser Bronn noticed Brienne's growing discomfort and snorted.

"For the love of the gods, wench," he growled, motioning with a curt wave of his arm for Brienne and Tyrion to follow him as he escorted the pair of them towards the lower level of the Red Keep, where their best and most trusted healer, Qyburn had been given accommodations by order of Cersei herself, having taken over as Pycelle's replacement. "What the fuck is the matter? Never touched another girl before, or what? Huh? Now is _not_ the time to let your fear get the better of you. She's a _girl_ , not a dog! Lady Stark won't bite you for carrying her like this. She's out cold," Bronn snapped meanly, jerking his head towards the young redhead's unconscious form. "Not in her current condition, anyways. Be sure to support her head, we don't know how badly the young lass is injured."

Tyrion watched with no small level of growing discomfort in his blue eyes as Brienne adjusted the girl in her hold, letting Sansa's head rest against the crook of her arm, and her head lolled back, exposing the pale column of her throat, and Brienne flinched as Tyrion's blue eyes darkened in anger, his gaze lingering on the red markings of Sansa's throat that were very clear finger shaped markings.

Brienne spluttered indignantly as Sansa's head made a tiny thudding noise against the metal of her armor and Sansa's little lord husband made a strangled noise that sounded like it was coming from the back of his throat.

" _Be careful with her_! Did Ser Bronn not just tell you to mind Sansa's head?" His words escaped him as a low, curt growl, and were incredibly harsh.

Brienne scowled, a move which created lines upon her forehead and a deep groove near her mouth, which did nothing at all to flatter her already unsightly features. "I would _never_ harm Lady Sansa, milord!" she snarled, face paling in anger. The very fact that this man would even suggest such a thing, after she had saved Lady Stark's life, was rage-inducing, and re-ignited that familiar hot fire seed of anger which began to rise again, deep in the pit of her stomach. "You—"

"Milady, if I have offended you, I—I apologize," Lord Tyrion stammered, interrupting before Brienne could elaborate further on what she wanted to say.

"I am no lady, Your Grace," Brienne corrected Sansa's husband immediately. "I agree that it could be worse than it actually looks. But if we continue to linger and not allow Maester Qyburn to see her, then your wife might worsen, milord."

 _That_ did it. Tyrion Lannister's face paled several shades, until his own face quickly mirrored that of Lady Sansa's, and for a moment, Brienne wondered if Ser Bronn was going to have to carry the little lord in his arms if he too fainted.

"Come. _Come_. We must go. _Now_ ," he growled, no warmth in his tone, and he quickened his pace so fast that, despite his short stature and quick gait, soon it was Bronn and Brienne who were having trouble keeping up with Lord Tyrion.

Brienne glanced down occasionally at the limp figure that was Sansa Stark in her arms. She could not help but to notice how light the poor thing was. She needs feeding up, the fair-haired blonde thought sadly, her hands trembling.

She felt like she was ruining Sansa Stark's purity and goodness by being allowed to be in such an intimate close proximity to Lady Catelyn's daughter.

Her tongue felt dry, and when she attempted to ask the two men a question, how much farther were these Maester's chambers, all that came out was a strangled attempt at speech. How anyone could hurt Lady Sansa was beyond her.

Brienne of Tarth knew that Sansa Stark of Winterfell held an understated beauty that she kept buried deep within, that this was the cause for the girl's natural prettiness that lit her eyes up and softened her otherwise harsh features.

Though Sansa's face was rapidly developing a clammy and pallid look that Tyrion and Bronn and Brienne weren't sure that they liked. It showed in her.

Sansa Stark blinked her eyelids a couple of times, and it showed in those soulful blue eyes of hers, as bright as any frozen over glacier of the Wall, yet so warm. How her beauty was more than enough to feel as though everything was, for a moment, at least, at peace, and Brienne bit the wall of her cheek, hardly able to bear such a concept. How pretty she was, and Brienne was so…not. Ungainly.

Brienne drew in a sharp breath that pained her lungs as they at last reached a dimly lit room in the lowermost part of the Red Keep, more of a crypt, really.

"A laboratory?" she asked, feeling her blue eyes widen in shock and awe.

"I prefer to think of it as more of a healing space, if you will," interjected a male's voice, albeit kind, not coarse and rough as Ramsay Bolton's had been.

Brienne blinked and gingerly set Sansa Stark's unconscious form on a nearby examining table that she chose to ignore the little Imp's low growling's of how they needed more pillows and blankets to make his new wife more comfortable.

This Maester, as he revealed himself, and stepped from the shadows, Brienne realized, was clearly obsessively and compulsively neat. Row upon row of dustless jars labelled in the same neat script with even strokes of the quill, every label facing forward, surrounded her, no matter which way Brienne turned to look.

On closer inspection as she gingerly sauntered towards a shelf, trying not to jostle her chain mail and cause a ruckus that would waken Lady Sansa, they were categorized according to the content and then alphabetized within their respective categories. Brooms, cloths, and feather dusters all lay huddled against one corner.

Thick oak chopping boards leaned against the cold, gray stone slabbed wall, an array of shiny stainless steel knives from scalpels to huge chopping blades were lined up next to a porcelain sink in order of size, each one looking cut-throat sharp. Golden old fashioned weighing scales with an assortment of weights sat next to the knives.

Qyburn stepped further into the light, brushing his veined and weathered hands on the front of his black Maester's robes and furrowed his brows together in quandary as he regarded Lady Stark's limp and unmoving form on the table.

It always had to be a serious matter for a sick or dying person to be brought to Cersei's most trusted Maester, for Brienne knew almost those who knew of this man were afraid of him, though why that could be, Brienne couldn't begin to fathom, for she sensed no malicious intent. He was nothing but a frail, aging man.

When he would see a new 'patient', if they were still alive, they or a family member would shower Maester Qyburn with fine food in an attempt to appease the man so that they would heal them and not cast an evil spell upon them all.

But if you were smart, and Tyrion most assuredly was, Brienne could tell even this, then you went to Qyburn since the man seemed to have a connection to the spirits that had deeper roots and as such, he was able to tap into the very power of the earth itself. "Oh, dear." Qyburn's cheerful expression faltered, and he rushed towards the table, motioning towards Tyrion to pull up the step ladder.

Lord Tyrion shot his sister's trusted Maester a withering glare, though he made no comment and dragged the little stepladder over towards Sansa's table.

"What happened?" Qyburn asked, looking towards Lord Tyrion for confirmation. Brienne noticed the withering look the Imp shot Qyburn as the aging man knelt and brushed back a lock of Sansa's hair away from her collarbone, almost as if he was offended by the notion of another man touching his wife in such an intimate way. Were this any other time and situation, Brienne might—might—have laughed at the dwarf's would be comical expression. But…

Laughing was the last thing she felt like doing right now. Brienne shook her head to clear her mind of her dark swirling vortex of unhelpful thoughts and stepped forward. "She was attacked, Maester. We do not know how badly she is hurt, milord Qyburn," Brienne offered, a hand still hovering over the hilt of Oathkeeper, ready to draw it if need be in defense. She furrowed her blonde brows into a frown as she watched Qyburn feel around the girl's wrists for a pulse. The man had the posture of a soldier, which Brienne was not at all sure if she trusted. Every action the healer seemed to take was precise and purposeful.

Brienne decided immediately that, although she could not place exactly why, that she did not like Qyburn. He was thin and aging. His voice came out strained and he was much too skinny. He walked like his legs were stilt performers in a traveling circus with a hinge at the knees. When he spoke to the pair of them, Brienne found herself inexplicably staring at the Maester's head.

 _Too small_ , she thought. _He can't get much of a brain in there_. She wanted nothing more than to block out this stranger's words but Tyrion was watching and she did not wish to appear rude in front of Lady Stark's husband, lying, deceitful Lannister or not.

He smiled at Lord Tyrion, Bronn, and Brienne in the cold and distant way professionals tended to do in this day and age. Brienne stiffened. She never could relax around such expressions. She wanted—needed—a genuine face, preferably a smile, but she would rather they did not fake it.

Throughout the Maester's general examination of Sansa Stark, he gave commands of Tyrion rather than requests. Lord Tyrion hovered right by the bedside (or was it tableside?) Brienne noticed, his tense expression from earlier only worsened, now replaced with a grim slash for a mouth and knitted brows.

Brienne could feel the fear in her chest waiting to take over. Perhaps it only wanted to protect her but there was no longer any danger now that Bolton has been dealt with. And yet, it sat there like an angry child's ball, propelling her towards an anxiety she knew that she did not need. She blinked, startled out of her mind's wanderings as she realized that Qyburn was speaking to the lord.

Once the Maester had Sansa Stark moved to a more comfortable cot in the corner of his so-called aptly named 'laboratory', though if you were to ask Brienne, this room gave her the chills, feeling more it resembled a prison cell, she watched as the dwarf's emotions began to catch up to him now that the immediate threat of danger had passed and he fell to his knees beside the cot.

A small, half choked sob escaped his lips and that was when Bronn took his silent cue to go stand guard just outside the door, mumbling for the little lord to take all the time he needed. Brienne felt a strange welling deep within the pit of her chest and sensing the former Hand of the King needed time alone with his wife, she too murmured a half-hearted excuse and moved to stand next to Bronn.

Brienne had barely made it to the doorway when the all too familiar voice spoke up, pricking the back of her mind and tugging at her heartstrings.

 _That girl will never forgive you. You failed her mother. You failed to protect her and her sister_. "Go away," Brienne snarled through gritted teeth to the demonic voice inside her head. The voice of Doubt. Shame. Ugliness. Wicked.

She scowled as her facial muscles became tense, like smiling for her today just wasn't an option, though Brienne had every reason to allow the ghost of a smile to cross her features. She had, after all, been victorious. She'd saved Sansa from a terrible fate at the hands of Lord Roose's son. She had won against Ramsay Bolton and kicked the Bastard out of Lord Tyrion and Lady Sansa's private bedchambers and had given him one hell of a gaping hole in his arm.

And for that fact, Brienne was relieved. Still…if she had only gotten here sooner, she might have been able to prevent it from happening all together.

Just like that, Brienne of Tarth's steady stream of good thoughts and minor confidence boost shattered like glass as her guilt and perceived failures set in.

This was somehow her fault, what had happened to Lady Sansa, she knew, and suddenly, Brienne could no longer remain in such close proximity to the one that she had sworn an oath to Lady Catelyn to protect, to give her own life if need be, if it came to that. For she had _not_ protected Sansa! Sansa was gravely _injured_!

Ashamed, she turned her head sharply away and stormed away from the doorway, mumbling a half-hearted excuse to Tyrion's other guard about needing some air for a moment. "I…" Her voice trailed off, unable to complete her thought. Brienne wasn't really even sure what she wanted to say, to Sansa or to Tyrion, given she was now well out of earshot of the young woman and Brienne knew that the girl or her little lord husband could not hear her next words to her.

"I'm glad you're going to be all right." She whispered, the beginnings of a shy, triumphant smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she stepped outside and felt the salty sea breeze air kiss her cheeks, rendering them pink and tousle her hair. Brienne let out a slow controlled breath and attempted to loosen her body movements, a difficult thing to do in a full suit of armor like this.

She gave her shoulders a wiggle and lolled her head in a circle, let her stride slacken to a more casual pace. It was a decent effort, enough to fool the casual observer, but for the onlooker with a keen eye, she was tensed in the shoulders.

Her blue eyes moved with the alertness that came from heavy stress and her hands remained clenched by subconscious demand, a force of habit by this late stage in her life, subjected to years of ridicule and torment by men. Soldiers.

Brienne let out a muffled cry of surprise and bit the wall of her cheek as the demon voice inside her head re-emerged with a guttural roar, screaming at her to forget thoughts of fulfilling her oath to Lady Sansa and to keep her promises.

Even now, as she reached the top level of the mezzanine, she could feel this voice lurking. An evil no one but her could see. A monster that tormented her day and night with no lulls or breaks. It sought out her weak heart and nestled itself within the limits of her brain and heart, making itself right at home as her constant companion. Inside Brienne's head. The distraught young blonde from the Isle of Tarth could feel it raging inside of her at what she had just done. Though she had saved the girl's life, and she would do it all over again given the chance to, it did not change the fact that she had almost beaten a man, a Bolton, for that matter, within the confines of the Red Keep. She had almost killed him!

Brienne ran her hands through her shock of golden hair, breathing in and out shaking breaths, clenching her blue eyes shut and willing the voices inside her mind to quell, to stop this… But they wouldn't. She could feel it, raging inside of him, reminding the girl of the monster that she truly was. Just loud enough for Brienne to hear, but there's a door in between it and her. She had kept it locked away now in a room inside her head, tried to keep it far away growing up when she was younger.

But it was still there…tearing through the holes in said door, trying to reach what little was left of Brienne's sanity. Her humanity if she had any. Brienne the Beauty, as she was so cruelly nicknamed, heaved a heavy sigh and slumped against the wall, her back digging into the stone for support as she buried her face in her gloved hands, letting out a guttural groan of anguish.

It was only a matter of time before the monster would manage to break through her self-imposed barriers. Brienne had managed to keep it locked up for years now. But the door she had put between herself and this demon was starting to collapse, to crumble, and it was during moments like today, when he had almost killed that wretched soldier who had been about to harm that beautiful innocent young woman whose family she owed a life debt downstairs, that it came out.

And It knew. Brienne exhaled slowly through her nose and blearily lifted her head from her hands, catching sight of her reflection in a broken shard of glass that rested near her boot. Brienne could see that monster, staring straight back at her in her reflection. Watching Brienne through her own eyes. Seeing everything she saw. It was waiting for her to embrace these dark feelings.

Hoping that the young woman would let her guard down. Knowing that sooner or later, that mental door would break, and the monster would be free.

Lately, it had been able to find ways to show itself. Ways to change itself. Ways to change her. Like what had happened downstairs, that—that wasn't her!

She had almost killed a man, and all to save a woman! Brienne tried to avoid bloodshed and the unnecessary taking of life when at all possible, but today…

Though, she would be the first to admit Lord Roose Bolton's son rightfully deserved it and more, even Brienne would have never stooped to that low as to _kill_ him. _What would Jaime say about all of this?_ The demon inside taunted her.

As the days passed and she grew older by the second, the monster looked more like Brienne of Tarth than anything else, and it was in this moment that the young woman realized, with what she had just done to Lady Catelyn's daughter.

If she were to try to develop a friendship with the beautiful girl downstairs, it would not bode well for her, she could already feel it. _What promise could you possibly make to Lady Stark and her husband that they would expect you to keep, when you could not even keep your promise to her own mother?_ It demanded.

Brienne would let Sansa get too close, just as she had done with Lady Catelyn, and her dream of becoming a knight would be shattered when she somehow managed to find a way to break yet another promise to the Starks.

No. That Brienne of Tarth could not allow to happen. She just couldn't, and she wouldn't. No, it would be safer for the girl if she knew what was best for her and stayed well away from her and no longer sought out Brienne's protection.

After today…She realized that she could lose everything.


	12. Tyrion

**Tyrion**

_Seven fucking hells_. This was all his fault. He had no idea what to do for Sansa, and if he wouldn't have spent so much time in the fucking kitchens fretting over what she might like to eat, he could have saved her from _this_. His mind drew blanks as to what to do except to sit with her.

Panic rose up within his throat, constricting his passageways and tightening it in a painful struggle.

It seemed cruelly unfair that no matter how much he strived to be the man his conscience and the rest of the Lannister family wanted him to be, specifically, his father, it would keep taunting him with his life's failures. Each time his regrets re-emerged, he tried to diligently analyze them over and over, hoping that this time, his overworked mind would be satisfied with his self-progressed remorse, but it never was. Like an unforgiving specter, it came back to haunt him again.

"Young Master Tyrion, you _must_ stay calm." Maester Qyburn's voice sounded muffled and strangely distant, though the man himself was hovering over Lady Sansa on the other side of the cot as he gingerly examined Sansa's body, running his hands up her arms and feeling her forehead for any signs of heat or moisture, though sensing that the girl's husband was not to listen to him, he hardened his voice, and when Qyburn spoke to Tyrion again, there was a hint of steel that told him that he must listen to him, damned or not if he was Cersei's. "Sansa will be just _fine_. Do you hear me?" came Qyburn's voice again.

But Lord Tyrion could not tear his gaze away from Sansa's ashen face. How waves of heat seemed to be coursing through his wife's blood stream, a cold sweat glistening on her gaunt features. Her eyes sunken, dark circles forming underneath her eyes and her skin sallow, it looked as though everything ached. Or would rather when she awakened. Tyrion frowned. Even under a light sheet, the poor thing was radiating heat like a brick pulled right from a fire.

And here Qyburn was, telling him that there was nothing more that could be done for his wife other than for her to ride it out. Tyrion bristled, his jaw rooted shut and he felt his head whiplash sharply upwards to regard the healing maester.

"H—how is this _fine_?" he growled, the words escaping him as a low growl, and he balled his hands into fists and set them in his lap, though to prevent the incessant shaking and as much to stop himself from striking out at something in anger, he heaved a heavy sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger and buried his hands in her hair.

He could not even begin to explain it, but…her auburn red hair felt so soft and luscious, her waves thick, and just stroking a few of the strands was enough to quell the maddening shaking in his palms, and his rage dissipate at what he had allowed to happen to his wife.

A _fine_ husband he was. Tyrion could not bear to tear his gaze away from Sansa as he sat with her on her meager little cot in Qyburn's 'healing room.' A haze of fear and overwhelming guilt threatened to consume him as he gazed upon her still form.

By the gods, she looked so…vulnerable and small. Tyrion let one of the pads of his fingertips ghost down alongside her cheek and trail the bones of her collarbones and he was even afraid to do that, worrying that she would shatter.

Tyrion swallowed hard past the lump in his throat as his gaze lingered upon the rapidly developing purple and black bruise underneath her eye. The spreading purple with the yellow blotches, however, was only the surface wound, as were Bolton's vicious finger markings that circled the entire pale column of her throat.

The real wound was within, that horrible feeling of betrayal that Sansa was bound to feel when she woke up towards him, that breaking of trust that was supposed to be something essential between a man and wife in the bonds of marriage.

For what we claim to love, we protect, right? Was that not the case?

He should have…he should have protected her! He did not deserve a woman like Sansa in his life. All of her surface wounds and no doubt now her broken trust in Tyrion, inflicted upon her because she had thought she could handle it. Why had he not waited for her to wake up?

He could have…he could have asked her what she had wanted to eat this morning instead of trying to guess and surprise her with a variety of things. Why had he not stayed and made certain that Sansa was all right? How in the fucking seven hells did Bolton get past the soldiers?

Something wasn't right. Nothing about this was making any sense at all. Why wasn't he helping her now? Why couldn't he move?

Sansa Stark deserved a man who was young and whole. Normal. Of which he was only young, but whole and normal he was not. He was not tall like his brother Jaimie, nor as good-looking. When she woke up and came to her senses, when Sansa would be responsive, able to use her higher thoughts, she was the one that he cared for now, for it was his duty as her lord husband to protect Sansa. And he had not done it.

All because of the fucking kitchen wenches taking their time and not having any kind of inkling as to what Sansa Stark liked to eat. Tyrion swallowed hard past the lump that still constricted and was threatening to close off his passageways as he could not seem to pull his gaze away from this bruise on her eye.

The bruise that had begun as a purple stain above her eyebrow had sunk into the socket itself, and so now, it was developing the appearance of a black eye, which would no doubt earn the poor girl more than a few raised eyebrows in a few days at King Joffrey and Margaery's wedding.

Qyburn said it again, and with a painstaking slowness, the dwarf raised his eyes to the maester, his eyes narrowed until they resembled that of a pit viper's.

In the dim light of his laboratory, he watched Maester Qyburn blink, and the healer could see just how much color the Imp had lost in his face. This little incident had affected him more than he had led on to the female knight and Bronn. It had shaken him to his core, and Tyrion was most assuredly _not_ fine.

"How…How is this _fine_ , Maester? Sansa is ill. She is most assuredly _not_ fine. What if because of what that dark-haired bastard did to her she develops a fever? Or—or other internal injuries? What then? Would you still consider her to be fine then? Hmm?" he snarled, baring his teeth, his fingers curling into fists around a lock of Sansa's hair. He froze as his wife mumbled something incoherent and shifted in his lap but when she did not wake, he breathed out a shaking, exhaled breath and felt the tension leave his shoulders. "My wife is _not_ fine, Maester! Just look at her. She—she's barely breathing!"

His question came out harsher than he meant for it too, more of a shouted bark, and he watched as Maester Qyburn flinched away from Lady Stark's bedside in hurt and surprise. "Young Master, you _must_ listen to me," Qyburn pleaded, a look of exasperation on his face as he took a few steps back and leaned against one of his wooden side tables for support, folding his thin arms across his chest, wearily rubbing at his temples, as though fighting off a splitting headache.

Qyburn was trying to get his attention, admittedly, a thing that was easier said than done, sadly. Tyrion had still not reacted to Qyburn's attempts to reason with him at all. "Your wife is _fine_ , milord. Do you understand me? Sansa Stark is just fine…" When Qyburn was met with an equally disturbing glower from the little lord that rivaled that of the looks he was accustomed at times to receiving from Cersei, Qyburn felt his normally kind expression harden into something stony.

He sighed and replied in a clipped tone. "Because aside from the markings upon her face and brow bone, which will _bruise_ , though they will _heal_ , I can detect no other sign of injuries. No contusions to her head when she fell, so that is a good thing. She did not appear to be…no forced signs of entry," he explained, a light pink blush speckling along his cheeks as the full realization of the meaning of what the maester was trying to convey to Tyrion hit him like a chunk of stone.

"Wha…?" Tyrion blinked, confused. And then, what Qyburn was suggesting that had almost happened to his wife ignited a flame deep within his stomach.

He ground his teeth in anger as his fists tightened in Sansa's thick locks. By the gods, he did not know how yet, but he would see that Bastard of Bolton's buried six feet under. And he was going to be the one to kill him himself for this.

Qyburn continued before his statement could invoke another outburst from the distraught little lord. "She is fine. And you must trust me, young master, when I tell you that Sansa Stark's health is not in any danger. She merely collapsed and her body became too taxed from stress. She'll wake in an hour or so perfectly fine, aside from the bruises. She will probably be sore, but I would be happy to procure some dreamwine or a little milk of the poppy to ease the pains."

Tyrion made an odd little strangled noise from the back of his throat. _Stress_. _Stress_ had caused… _this_?

He could not believe it. He frowned, though offered a curt little nod towards Cersei's healing maester, before returning his attentions back to his wife. Thank the gods, some of her normal color was returning to her cheeks.

"Maester Qyburn. For your efforts, were it not for you, I… Thank you." The words escaped him as he noticed Qyburn turning to leave. The maester shifted at the waist slightly, turning halfway back around, seemingly looking surprised by the words of gratitude.

Perhaps Cersei never conveyed such words of appreciation to him, but he liked to think he was not like the rest of his family. Tyrion swallowed hard as he watched the frail old man walk down the hallway and round a corner. To do what, only the gods knew, and Tyrion wasn't sure he wanted to know. He let out a sigh and glanced back down at the celestial-like creature, whose head still rested in his lap, and he decided he'd keep it there.

He wanted his face to be the rest thing Sansa saw when she woke up, to reassure his wife that no further harm would come to her, and from now on, anywhere she went, he went too. Tyrion furrowed his brows into a frown as he continued his absentminded stroking of her hair, feeling the smooth softness.

_It's pointless and hopeless for you to keep hoping like this. You'll never have it. Love. You really think the Stark girl could ever grow to love you? You're the Imp! Demon Monkey! What on earth kind of life could someone like you ever give the She Wolf of Winterfell? You are lucky she's not fled from you in terror!_

The demonic voices taunted him in the back of his mind, chastising Tyrion for daring to even have an inkling of hope, which was little more than a glowing ember flame sitting in the confines of his chest, close to his heart, that the girl would one day truly grow to love him. It should have been painstakingly obvious that no woman, especially not Sansa Stark, would ever want to be with him in a romantic way because of his monstrous form. He, the Almost-Made. The Imp.

He could not change his short stature, though if he were given the opportunity, he wondered if he would do it in a heartbeat. Become tall, and once he was 'normal', he wondered if he would rival then that of his brother Jaimie.

If he were taller, perhaps, would he then stand a better chance of one day winning Lady Stark's affections? But it was pointless to wish even for such a thing. Being short was all he knew, and he could not change what he was.

There was a wickedness and corruption inside of him that had stunted his growth, according to Father, as Tyrion had recalled asking him when he was younger. The dark voices inside his head were screaming at Tyrion not to trust Sansa, to pull away before she too, like most other women in his life, ripped his heart from his chest.

Tyrion clenched his eyes shut, teeth grinding in anger as he shook his mop of curly hair, trying to rid his mind of these voices.

Snakelike and taunting him daily. He rose a shaky hand to one of his tired eyes and rubbed slowly over the surface of his roughened skin. A scattered sigh managed to escape his cracked lips. The thought of harm befalling the young, beautiful creature in his arms flashed in his vivid memory, what he and Brienne had almost walked in on, and how, he could have sworn when he had knelt at her side, she had… _smiled_ at him.

The recollection of her tiny yet soft and bright smile danced in the back of his mind. How it had laced over her face with such a sweetness.

He was certain that no other woman in Westeros held such a smile. A sudden and sharp horrible ache thrashed through his heart as he realized he should not feel like this. Tyrion scowled as he realized that what he was feeling for Sansa felt…wrong.

Wrong, or more so, what he was feeling for Sansa Stark was wrong. It just had to be, right? Why he felt like this? It was wrong. How Sansa's cobalt blue eyes drenched his memory, and he felt like he was drowning. He never would have imagined another woman after Tysha could invoke this strange, almost forgotten and buried feeling deep within the pit of his chest. Yet, here he sat. Broken, scarred, beaten, and battered, but nevertheless feeling.

Of course, this feeling was something that he had not felt since he was sixteen years old, but it still held a feeling of familiarity and yet foreign to Tyrion right now. Like a fond memory that at times did not quite feel real to him. But something deep within the recesses of his mind and his heart still fought against this feeling, this light, breathless feeling.

But what was even worse was the darkness spreading like a festering wound underneath the airy lightness that he felt the more time he spent in his new wife's company, and rendered Tyrion not only feeling 'wrong,' so to speak, but this horrible, snakelike voice that sounded entirely too much like Father for his comfort, sat in the back of his mind, constantly tormenting him even when Lord Tywin was not present.

_You truly think the Stark girl cares for you? I hate to disappoint you, my son, but she does not. No woman could ever love you. Why should she? Just take a look at you, Imp_.

Tyrion practically growled with the effort to restrain himself and kept his eyes clenched shut and rested his head against the headboard of the makeshift mattress that served as little more than a straw mattress with several pillow and a thick wool blanket.

It should have been obvious to him and everyone else who was fortunate (or unfortunate enough, depending on who you asked!) enough to know him that he was seemingly doomed and destined to spend the rest of his life alone, hiding in the shadows.

Where a creature like him rightfully belonged. But that did not stop Tyrion from hoping to live in the light, just like the rest of his family. Though he was never quite able to reach it, no matter how hard he tried. If he was being completely honest with himself, the little lord wanted what 'normal' men had every day of their lives and took for granted.

A family. A loving wife. Children of his own one day to carry on the Lannister family name. At that, he scoffed and rolled his eyes as his father's words lingered in his eardrums, refusing to part from his thoughts.

_The day that you emerged from your mother's womb and I held you in my arms, any lesser man would have carried you into the sea and drowned you. Let the waves just…carry you away, and out of the goodness of my heart and because I cannot prove that you are not mine, to honor your mother's legacy, I spared your life and raised you as my own son out of the goodness of my heart. You an accursed little wretch, Tyrion, and there is no point in trying to deny that. Because I cannot prove that you are not mine, you are destined to wear our family's colors and bear the Lannister name, to receive the same educations and teachings as my other children receive. But no amount of compassion will ever compel me to allow you to rule. I will grant you the Stark girl as a wife, given that our Lannister progeny needs to continue, though I would be the first to admit I do not believe you to be worthy of such a beauty, but you are a Lannister and you need to marry. You will get a wife, but you will speak no more to me of your…rights, Tyrion. Not a word._

Still, the remnants of the harsh 'conversation' exchanged between the two of them did not stop Tyrion from feeling a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach, a warmth he had not felt before. Such a sensation was foreign to him, and he did not know what to do.

_You're pathetic, Almost-Made. You've not learned your lesson at all_! These intrusive, wicked thoughts left him speechless and pondering as to Sansa's feelings regarding him.

His eyes flung open as the snakelike hiss re-emerged to whisper these ideas in his mind, and he could practically feel his cobalt blue eyes widening in shock and horror.

His breaths hitched in his throat. _Oh. And Shae! What would she say to all this?_ Tyrion groaned as a heavy hand found its way back to his face. He clenched his eyes tightly shut in a vain attempt to block out the demonic voices. The tones were mocking, that of his Father's, laced with cold amusement and judgement towards his decisions. Unfortunately, by this stage in his life, he was all too familiar with this particular voice.

_Did you even care for the whore at all? She was heartbroken when you abandoned her. From what it looks like, you've already moved on from one woman to the next. Disgusting. Wretched. You see the way she notices you looking at Sansa. Shae knows. She knows._

"No!" His cracked, faltering voice erupted from him in a frenzy, as though he believed it would be the silencer to the wicked thoughts swirling around in his tired head.

Sansa stirred in her sleep again, shifting her head so that her neck rested against his right knee. Tyrion froze and bit the wall of his cheek, turning his head away sharply. He, monstrous as he was, did not deserve to look upon such a beauty so simple and pure. His breathing became shallower as time passed, the seconds turning to minutes, feeling as though it were crawling at a petty pace.

"I…you're wrong, Father. I—I'm _happy_." His voice and his resolve broke and cracked on the last word and he removed his hands from Sansa's hair and buried his face in his hands, pieces of shaggy light blonde hair flecked with bits of brown sticky in his fingers as he tangled his hands in his hair.

The poor man was practically hysterical at this point, mind reeling from what he had almost walked in on, and had Brienne not been there by his side to put a stop to it, what Bolton would have done to Sansa in their own bedchambers would have been horrific.

Tyrion felt as if his lungs were slowly filling with water, as if there was just less space in them for the air. Inflating them felt like pushing up against a chunk of stone on his chest. There was a horrible tightness in his chest, his ribs heaved up and down, but no benefit came. Just dizziness.

His lungs felt like they were on fire, burning, as the biting cold bitter air that wafted in through Qyburn's healing chambers thrashed in and out of him at a speed that Tyrion simply could not control. His heart pounded in his chest.

If he couldn't get a handle over his emotions, he was certain that slick, briny tears would slip from his eyes at any moment. He swallowed past the lump in his throat, amazed he could still even draw in breath, and tried in vain to fight down the salty liquid.

After a moment of silence that felt absolutely deafening and rang in his ears, the tormenting voice of Tywin Lannister ceased to torment him. For now, though he would be back again. His lungs calmed bit by bit, the burning sensation slowly subsiding as his panic passed. "I…care for her." His tenor-like voice dropped lower than he was used to. This…this was wrong. It had to be wrong. How could he look at his own wife in such a way, when he had treated Shae so horribly? She reviled him now, loathed him, because of what he was.

_'What would Shae say?'_ The thought continued to torment him, even now. Though this time, the internal voice was not that of Father's, but of his own.

The question swirled in his throbbing head. As the silence around him thickened, a great and abrupt bitterness seeped into the pit of his stomach as it lurched, and he swallowed hard. And then it hit him. Why he felt this way. _Loras_. That fucking little cunt. 'The Knight of Flowers' they called him. The second prize flower of Highgarden after Margaery Tyrell. Rumored cock swallower or not, it did not change the way that Tyrion had seen how Sansa stole little glances at Ser Loras Tyrell.

_He_ was the reason that Sansa did not return Tyrion's affections, he was certain of this.

"If only…if I were taller, perhaps. _Normal_ ," he growled bitterly, tugging on a lock of his hair, biting the wall of his cheek in frustration. The lump in his throat hardened as his breathing stuttered and faltered. What in seven hells was _wrong_ with him this morning? "No."

The word escaped him as a low growl, and he shook his head violently as he immediately dismissed this incriminating thought. It was not Loras's fault for Tyrion's shortcomings. Tyrion knew that he could not— _would_ _not_ —blame someone else for something that they held no control over. It was not Loras's fault Tyrion had been born a dwarf. He had not asked for this life. Were that he taller, like Jaime, then maybe…

"She is truly remarkable, you know." A new voice rent through the otherwise silent air, and Tyrion blinked up, in surprise. He looked up and immediately wished he had not, feeling his face drain of color as he found himself staring face-to-face with none other than Shae. By the gods and the Light of the Seven, could this day possibly get _any_ worse?

Apparently so. A heavy silence settled over the pair of them, thicker than the uneasy tension in the dank atmosphere of Qyburn's chambers. Their unsettled eyes glanced unceremoniously around and tried to avoid each other's glimpses, neither one wanting to meet the other's eyes.

Tyrion furrowed his brows into a frown, and he felt his short arms wrap tightly around Sansa's limp figure as they could, as if he thought that could protect her. Shae's pretty features were not, however, contorted into a frown that did not suit her as Tyrion had expected her to be. She had perfected a look of neutrality, no doubt a skill she had learned whilst watching the other handmaidens while in King's Landing.

Shae was looking down her nose at Sansa's form currently cradled in Tyrion's arms, her lips pursed into a thin, rigid line as she noticed the red markings on the pale column of her throat. "The lady knight told me what happened. She is…truly remarkable, to stand up to that man as vicious as he is. She…you—you must be…very special to her, my lion."

Tyrion flinched and clenched his eyes shut at the use of her term of endearment for him that once upon a time, made his heart flutter, though today, it only invoked feelings of immense bitterness. Though he felt his head come up sharply at the whore's words.

Of course, he had already known that Sansa was a remarkable young woman. That had been made plain as day as the first time he had laid eyes upon her in Winterfell. The entire Stark family was ancient, and the women of that particular family were known for their unfailing kindness and fairness when it came to dealing with their kingdoms' smallfolk.

Though what caused his mind to reel and shocked him to his core was the unfathomable thought that _he_ could ever be special to the young redhead.

How could he, an Almost-Made, the Imp, the Demon Monkey, a monster, a dwarf with little to offer his wife except protection, ever be anything of importance to a young, beautiful woman like Sansa Stark? Sansa was a woman full of potential and promise, with the capability of becoming a great Queen one day, that she had thrown away the moment they had wed.

For he would never be anything but a lord. Which admittedly, should have been good enough for anyone else, for any woman would be fortunate to marry a lord of King's Landing, but…such a life was not good enough for the beauty that was Sansa Stark.

She deserved more, to live a life with someone who could adequately provide for her, for Sansa wholly deserved to live a good life in the company of normal people who were not mocked for their short stature. He himself was just shy of about 5'1, on a good day.

His wife deserved a better life than he could ever provide, one where she could be surrounded by people who were able to move about their daily lives without causing women to snicker at him behind his back, the jeering of men, the jokes at his expense.

By marrying him, Tyrion had ultimately allowed Sansa to become subject to that kind of torment, and that…he could simply not allow. Was he, Tyrion Lannister, really worth the amount of risk that Sansa had taken today in going up against Ramsay Bolton on her own? Was he worth her life that had almost been taken from her, the blood that she had shed? What hellish life had he condemned Sansa Stark to by marrying her, forced or not?

How could he possibly be worth that to anyone, but especially to Sansa? _How_? Tyrion jumped as he felt Sansa shift in her sleep yet did not wake. "…Tyrion…" He watched in great shock at the realization that his name had escaped from her lips in sleep. And with such… _tenderness_. _Care_.

Maybe even, dare he think this next part, affection? He felt his heart swell and flutter at hearing his wife's sweet voice speak his wretched name. That strange corded muscle within his chest tugged and always reacted strangely whenever Sansa spoke his name, different admittedly, than it had been when around Shae.

"…don't…leave me…" Her voice came out as a mere whisper, hoarse and faint enough that had he not already been hanging onto her every word, Tyrion would have missed it.

He let out a sigh as he gave Sansa's hand a light but gentle, reaffirming squeeze, hoping to silently convey to her in her sleep that she was safe now and that he was here. Tyrion blinked, hardly daring to believe that this was reality, to think that a woman, much less his own wife, would ask of him to stay with her as she slept, frightened that he, the Almost Made, the Imp, would leave her side, was more than he knew what to do with.

And now, here Sansa Stark was, asking of Tyrion not to leave her side while she slept, and he drew in a sharp breath that pained his lungs as she seemed to snuggle further and deeper into his chest, a strange little awkward half smile forming on her delicate features.

Even in sleep…his wife was beautiful. A beautiful woman felt beautiful within, and Tyrion liked to think he knew a thing or two about beautiful women, from the love she would give to her ideas and the creative ways they learned to express themselves.

And Sansa Stark was a young woman who wanted nothing more than to wrap her arms around the soul of the world, of Westeros, of all who loved her and those who needed to love. That, to Tyrion, was beauty, and if the others could see that within his wife as he could, then the people would be smarter and wiser than most. And Sansa was a good listener while he talked. She was someone who sought to make connections and joy to see things from new perspectives, from angles that he had not once ever thought to consider.

His wife had safe eyes. Perhaps that was the best way to say it. Age could not touch her kind of beauty. It was just there, and Tyrion wished he could bottle it up in a tiny glass vial and hoard her beauty and warmth for himself. To carry it with him always. To…love.

Somehow, Sansa Stark's imperfections made her perfect. There was a shyness to her, hesitation in her body movements when she walked, and a quiet, tenor, softness to her voice. Tyrion emanated a tense, shaking exhale through his nose and glanced down at his wife's complexion, which was admittedly looking a sight better now that a little color had returned to her cheeks and she was no longer under the taxation of stress as Qyburn said. His wife looked calm, at peace, and he vowed that he would not leave her until she awoke from her sleep. As her husband, he would be here for her and honor her wishes.

"Do not worry, wife," he whispered, having to bend his head down slightly in order to whisper it into the shell of her ear. "I won't leave you, Sansa. I'll always be here for you." Tyrion was so engrossed in making sure that his wife was comfortable, that he failed to notice Shae's nails raking down the side of the wooden table she was clutching onto for support, knuckles white with the effort to steady herself, and an unreadable expression on her face.

Shae swallowed hard past the lump in her throat and blinked back tears. "We—we should…let her get some air. Why don't we head back to the kitchens and bring her some food? She will not be going anywhere, milord. Sansa will be quite safe. Maester Qyburn will look after her," Shae suggested softly after a few minutes spent in silence.

His glazed eyes blearily looked towards Sansa's handmaiden in a panic, and with a tiny sigh, he recognized that Shae might have a point. Sansa had not eaten all day and she would no doubt be hungry when she woke, and Qyburn was here with his wife to attend to her so that there would not be a repeat of what had happened in their chambers earlier.

Tyrion glanced back down at Sansa' still sleeping form on the makeshift mattress and frowned, closing his strained eyes for a moment, and exhaling a shaking, tense breath.

The memories of the morning swirled in his mind and it was not even late afternoon yet. He was confused and utterly lost, but something good had come out of all of this.

Tyrion gave a reluctant nod after several long minutes of weighing the pros and cons of momentarily leaving Sansa's side, though Qyburn's quarters were closer to the kitchens than their bedchambers were, and they would be gone a grand total of two minutes, at best.

His wife could be fine on her own for at least that long, Tyrion surmised, and he would still be here for her by her side whenever she woke up.

He reluctantly rose back to his fatigued feet and lingered in the doorway that led out of Qyburn's chambers and down the hall towards where the servants' quarters resided and the kitchens and risked one last glance over his shoulder at the sleeping beauty, the strange material that was Sansa that lay asleep, still with that strange little ghost of a smile etched across her pale features.

Tyrion let out a heavy sigh, tugged on the handles of the heavy oak doors' sturdy handles and disappeared out into the hallway, not noticing that Shae had lingered behind…


	13. Sansa

** Sansa **

There was a horrible constricting on her throat like weight sucking her last breath of air from her lungs. Sansa swallowed past the lump in her throat and sighed, her once tranquil face in sleep now welcomed a bit of a struggle as her eyes reopened and she woke up. Her vision slowly but surely cleared. Sansa felt her eyelids flutter open as she blearily awoke to the frigid cold of some kind of dank, unfamiliar cloister cell. This wasn’t their bedroom. She was surprised that she was not in the confines of Lord Tyrion’s chambers, given the nature of what had happened to her, but she was not about to question this.

Her head throbbed from where she had struck her head against the cold tile floor in her feeble attempt to get away from Lord Roose’s son. The pain felt as though someone had taken a knife to her skull and lodged it deep within it. She laid back against the bed, resting her head against the wooden headboard. Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, Sansa willed the pain to go away. The rest of the world around her became quite detached.

All she could seem to concentrate on was the pain rooted deep in her head, she could barely hear the low murmurs of two other voices—other people—chattering around her in hushed, worried tones. All she felt, all she knew, was the pain of this moment.

And it _hurt_. Her eyes remaining closed, she allowed her thoughts to drift to before, how someone, and she could have _sworn_ during her state of semi-consciousness, that she’d heard Brienne of Tarth’s voice speaking to someone, probably Lord Tyrion or Ser Bronn. Sansa felt her heart inexplicably sink to the pit of her stomach as she glanced to the left and right, searching for her husband and seeing no sign of Tyrion. She let out a sigh.

She had hoped he would be here when she woke up. Strange as though it may seem, Sansa could have sworn she heard him talking to her while she slept. “But I heard you…”

“Maybe it was a dream, then?” That was it. It must have all been in her head. She sighed again, wishing that it had not been, and a male’s voice rent the otherwise silent air.

The creaking of someone’s footsteps as they stepped from the shadows and into the dimly lit cloister cell of…wherever she happened to be, echoed throughout the desolate room. Someone else was here! _In the room with her alone_! Look at how well that had transpired for her the _last_ time. Ramsay Bolton had viciously attacked her and would have killed her and brutally raped her in the confines of her own bedroom, on her and Tyrion’s marriage bed as the final insult to the already tender wound that was her fragile heart, and had it not been for her savior coming when they had and doing something about the man’s insatiable appetite for sex and lust for women, who knows what Bolton would have done to Sansa then, who she hoped that Tyrion would tell her their name, though she could guess.

She furrowed her brows into a frown as she could have _sworn_ she’d heard Brienne’s voice. She thought she would recognize it anywhere, and that head of golden blonde hair. Sansa wished to thank them properly and ask that whoever had done it be knighted if they were not already, and to offer this person a personal place within her and Tyrion’s personal guard, if they should so wish that kind of a well-paid, richly rewarded life for themselves.

Any one person who could hold their own against the Skinflayer was a hero in Sansa’s book, and undoubtedly, in Tyrion’s as well, for this stranger had saved her life. She blinked once and stifled a groan as she sat up straighter in the little bed, twice until her mind slowly began to settle and the strange sense of giddiness intermingled with remorse danced away. Her eyes snapped open even wider as the footfalls of whoever was in the room with her drew nearer, quick enough that the room around her began to spin.

Gods, she felt so _sick_. Sansa could taste the bitter bile coating the back of her throat and she swallowed it back. Feeling lightheaded, eyes clenched shut as she wished for nothing more than the black spots dancing in front of her vision to go away and leave her in peace, she placed her head on the itchy woolen blanket that covered her knees and focused on regulating her breathing back to something that resembled normalcy. In. Out.

Repeat a few more times. Sansa instinctively felt her left hand wrap around the column of her throat, gingerly wincing as she felt the red markings that had been left there by Bolton’s thick fingers, feeling, and hating the burning sensation he had left behind. A lone tear traced down her cheek and she blinked back briny tears, just as the man’s voice cut through the otherwise silent cloister cell. “Lady Sansa. Are you in any pain?” A man’s voice was asking her, soothing, not accusatory in any way, which Sansa felt grateful for.

She sat up straighter, her blue eyes wide open. Sansa felt the heat speckle along her cheeks, not even realizing that she had been dozing off. A dark shadow engulfed her seated form, where she sat still, perched and unmoving on top of the undeniably hard straw mattress, unwilling to move for the moment until her swells of nausea passed, or to put any strain on her ankle, which she could see as she dared to poke her foot out of the blanket was still swollen.

Sansa furrowed her brows together in a frown. _Just great_. With King Joffrey’s wedding celebration in little less than two days now, she would not be able to stand for the ceremony, much less dance or partake in the festivities with her lord husband. But even just to sit and talk with Tyrion should be more than enough. _Besides, he’s never struck you as the type to enjoy dancing_. _Just imagine him trying to keep up with you_. She smirked, feeling her lips curve upward into a soft smile as the mental image of Tyrion trying to dance with her, given how short he was, and how much taller she was in comparison, flitted through her mind, and when the man coughed once to clear his throat, Sansa blinked and startled, having completely forgotten someone else was in the room with her. 

“N—yes,” she squeaked, blearily lifting her head, and trying to focus her gaze more than a few feet in front of herself. She felt her face drain of color, what little of it was left in her already pale features as her gaze drifted downwards towards the thin man’s sandals. Her face blanched as she realized exactly who it was she was dealing with. She had never met Cersei’s personal Maester, though she had heard tales of Maester Qyburn from Tyrion and a few others, more notably, the Spider in the Garden, Lord Varys himself.

In a moment of panic as terror seized her chest and worked its way up into her throat, she bolted from her bed and quickly came to the conclusion that little move on her part had been a grave mistake as she immediately shot out an arm to use the wall as a support brace, and instead found herself clutching onto the arm of Qyburn, an admonishing look in his inquisitive eyes as he silently guided Sansa back to the bed.

“I…Y—sir, f—forgive me, for I did not e—expect anyone to be here. I thought that perhaps Lord Tyrion would be here?” she breathed, her words escaping her lips as a soft susurration, and even she was surprised to detect the note of hope that lingered within. Sansa felt the heat deepen on her cheeks as her face flushed high with color as she realized it was perhaps improper of her to ask the healing maester after the whereabouts of her lord husband so informally in this manner, considering who the man reported to.

She dipped her head in an apologetic manner and was quick to try to correct herself as she watched the aging man’s graying brows furrow into a slight frown as he studied her. “Your husband has merely ventured to the kitchens to retrieve for you something to eat,” he answered airily, though Sansa blushed as a strange little chuckle escaped his lips that to Sansa sounded more like a snort of amusement and for a moment, she felt her hackles rise in defense of Tyrion. Was this another man, come to mock the pair of them?

She bristled as she watched Maester Qyburn clasp his hands together and held them behind his back while he patiently awaited Lady Sansa’s answer. “But why did he not…?” _Stay with me_ , is what she wanted to say, though her voice trailed off and she could not finish her thought. Sansa blinked and her blush deepened as she realized Cersei’s maester had asked her a question. “Wh—what?” she stammered. “I—I was not listening.”

Qyburn smirked, biting the inside of his cheek, and seeming like he was fighting against his urge to laugh at Tyrion’s wife. “I could tell. It is of no consequence to me, milady. I was merely asking you again if you are in any pain and if you would like for me to fetch you some dreamwine or perhaps milk of the poppy to ease the aches. It would help you to sleep if you are tired. You appear to have twisted your ankle upon falling. I would advise against putting any pressure on it for the time being until the swelling has gone down. You are lucky that your lord husband and the Tarth woman found you when they did.” Sansa felt her head jerk sharply upwards to regard the aging man, her mouth agape.

_So, it was Brienne that saved me_ , she thought wildly, making a mental note to speak with the woman later, perhaps at Joffrey’s wedding feast when the attention would (she prayed!) be on the King and Queen that day, their focus shifted to them instead of her and Lord Tyrion for a change. Sansa blinked owlishly at the aging healer and regarded him.

He seemed like a man who had long since forgotten what it felt like to have joints that moved freely, without pain. His aches were his constant companions, not friends, per say, but always with him. His memories seemed to both warm and haunt the man.

Qyburn, in his set of black maester’s robes, looked rather shriveled, feeble. As if one good puff of wind could blow him down. He had a slight hand tremor and constant waggling and bobbing of his head as he mumbled to himself, sorting through various jars of assortments of materials, though what they contained, Sansa decided she didn’t want to know. The maester’s wrinkles seemed to carve a map of his life on his still agile and mobile facial features. His twinkling and surprisingly kind eyes were framed by thin white eyebrows and on his stubbled chin were white whiskers, which Sansa thought strange. That he would have kind eyes, considering he was perhaps the one and only friend that Cersei had in life.

Maester Qyburn was a man who had a tuft of once thick hair, now thin and greying, though slicked back with some kind of strange oil to prevent it from getting in the way while he worked, almost salt and pepper in color. He had a wizened face and when he moved, with each movement as he strode forward to further examine Sansa’s features in the dim light, there was the creak of old bones. He had the strangely resigned look of one who knew that at his age, past the point of no return, life has stopped giving and only sought to take away. The light from the simple candelabra he held in his hand illuminated Qyburn’s tired, worn face, wrinkles boring deeply into his skin which still carried the faint traces of youth. His expression was of frustration and fatigue.

The world of Westeros seemed to have no place for this man. He had had enough, hence, if the rumors were true, he had ventured to King’s Landing and somehow landed within Cersei Lannister’s good graces. Sansa could tell the maester was a man with stories to tell, for she could practically see experience danced on his thin lips like a curious child. And yet, he remained silent. Those listless eyes just watching. Not telling, the fire content to adorn his lined skin. Qyburn mumbled something incoherent under his breath and shot Sansa a quizzical gaze that she was not entirely sure to make of.

He had, since his arrival to King’s Landing, seen much, but having caught the gist of what had happened when the hulking she-knight and the Imp carried the Stark girl into his quarters earlier, he never would have been able to fathom someone like Bolton managing to slink his way past the numerous guards. Let alone attempt to physically assault and rape one of the last surviving Stark women. It was…truly abhorrent. At the thought of the young redhead currently in front of him meeting such a terrible fate, the aging Maester’s face twisted and contorted to something akin as pity. “I apologize for what you endured in your chambers, milady. Forgive us. We should have taken better care, but…” Qyburn’s voice trailed off as he looked away. “It seems that you have your _own_ knight protecting you, do you not?”

A dark little chuckle escaped the Maester’s lips as he folded his arms across his chest and seemed to shrink into his set of black maester’s robes for warmth as much as possible.

Sansa blinked. Was he talking about what she thought he was talking about? Was he referring to Brienne or…? “Y—yes, it would certainly seem that way, sir,” she stammered. Sansa knitted her brows together and looked away, biting the inside of her cheek as she fidgeted nervously with her simple gold wedding band. She wished Tyrion would return. Not that she minded the old man’s company, but something about Qyburn felt…

 _Off_. Yes. Off. That was the right word. Sansa swallowed nervously, wishing that she could march right up to where Tyrion was, wherever that happened to be, and demand that he stay right by her side, that, in time, as long as he was patient with her, that yes, she could grow to love him, she believed, as long as he continued to allow her to lead at her own pace, she could love him, flaws and all, dwarf or not. But…but…she could not do it.

Before the words even formed in her mouth or her feet allowed her to remove herself from the meager little cot in Qyburn’s corner of his room that he dared to call a bed took her to the vicinity of the kitchens where speech would be possible, her heart felt like it was racing. She was…scared. Scared, fearful of what Lord Tyrion would think of her.

Once again, her fear found her. It spoke to Sansa in its cackling voice. It told her legs to go weak, or perhaps that was the straining pressure of her sprained and swollen ankle. It told her stomach to lurch and her heart to send fiery aches of pain up and down her sides. Her mother and father told her and Arya once that there was nothing to fear but fear itself, but still, if that were the case, then why could Sansa not silence its damned evil voice? Sansa jumped and clamped a hand over her mouth as a scream that sounded like it was coming from a floor below Qyburn’s laboratory to muffle her own scream escaping.

It echoed throughout the room, making the origin of the noise to pinpoint. The first cries were undoubtedly terror, the cries of one with their eyes locked wide and every muscle rigid. The next were of pain, garbling and pitiful. She let out a low whimpering whine and looked towards Qyburn for confirmation, whose face remained steady and matte, as if he were browsing the streets of the marketplace for food, not listening to the heart-wrenching and quite frankly, frightening screams of...whatever monstrosity was down there. Neutral was his face, and when Sansa dared to meet the healer’s gaze, he merely shrugged his shoulders and smiled.

“Nothing for you to worry about, Lady Stark, though I caution you not to venture beyond those doors for the time being,” he added dryly, pointing a slightly warbling finger towards an old oak door almost concealed within the shadows located near the back of the room. “Let’s just concentrate on getting you well again and walking again,” Maester Qyburn said airily, and, offering the lord’s wife an awkward little half bow at the waist. “I am grateful that you seem relatively unharmed, milady, given the circumstances. I must apologize for Master Bolton’s behavior,” Qyburn added, crinkling his nose in disgust, pulling a face. “I can assure that you are quite safe within these walls, and he will not trouble you again. If he should step foot within my own laboratory or Master Tyrion’s chambers again, he shall be…dealt with, shall we say. I need not to say any more than that, Lady Stark,” he growled, and Sansa was surprised to see the briefest flashes of anger flicker through the aging man’s eyes. She was surprised, having believed of the maester to be as callous and heartless as the rest of the Lannister family of Lions, but…

 _Perhaps there’s more to you than meets the eye, Maester_ , she thought a little sadly.

“He will be dealt with accordingly, per Master Tyrion’s orders, Lady Stark. He will answer to you for what he has done if he should dare to step foot within these stone walls. You have my word and to trust my word is to trust our queen’s. That you are safe, Sansa.”

Sansa almost threw back her head laughed at Qyburn’s advice to trust Cersei, though her fleeting urge to laugh quickly dissipated as a second figure stepped from the shadows. Who else was here with her and Maester Qyburn? She swallowed, the lump in her throat returning and constricting and closing off her passageways. “Milady Sansa.”

Her new handmaiden, Shae, had her hands clasped neatly in front of her and had dipped her head in acknowledgement. “It is…good to see you are well and awake. Lord Tyrion will be…most relieved and pleased to see that.” Shae swallowed, and it did not escape Sansa’s attentions that her handmaiden’s words were spat more than spoken and laced with hurt. “He will return in a moment with food, I should think. He will be back.” Sansa watched as Shae’s face flushed, with a quick smile, and glanced down at her feet, shuffling nervously, and shifting her weight from one foot to the other, as she was apt to do. Sansa sighed, head inclined, fingers clasped and waited for Shae to elaborate.

Sansa did not bother to quell the heat rapidly coloring her cheeks as she could feel her handmaiden’s stare practically burning a hole in the back of her skull as Sansa, unable to bear the uncomfortable silence a moment longer as she looked away, jaw locked tightly. She could not explain it, and she did not think herself able if someone were to ask her about it, how an inexplicable hot fire seed of annoyance and anger welled deep with an uncomfortable pit that had formed in her stomach. “Do you care for your lord husband?”

Sansa swallowed nervously. Suddenly, her throat very dry, and she was not at all sure she liked the way that her new handmaiden was looking at her, how her strangely fearful eyes were her pain untold, and Sansa wished that Shae would just talk to her. To tell her what ailed her. Those dark eyes darkened and flashed almost angrily, and Sansa found herself drawn into her handmaiden’s gaze, unable to tear her gaze away.

“Did you even _want_ your union for yourself, milady?” Shae asked, seeming to forget that it was highly improper for her, as Sansa’s handmaiden, to ask such a question of her.

Those dark eyes of her handmaiden’s were her own shield and sword in a world that tended to favor the menfolk over that of the women. The gathering of clouds for a rainfall that Sansa knew that Shae would never allow anyone to witness. Maybe one day, she would let others see that pain untold. But first, Shae would have to trust someone else up to open up to them and let them in, and Sansa had a feeling that it would not be she.

Her handmaiden was entirely too haunted, troubled by something, to confide in Sansa. “I know you are lying to yourself about your feelings of our lord, Lady Stark. Forgive me for speaking so boldly, but someone must since everyone else in this city is afraid to speak their mind and spill the truth. But not I. Do you care for Tyrion Lannister, Lady Stark?” Shae continued, her voice cold and surprisingly unflinching and bold.

Sansa felt as though her handmaiden had slapped her. Her mind was reeling as her brain struggled to process Shae’s harsh words.

Sansa abruptly tore her gaze away from Shae’s piercing, burning gaze, only to find that Maester Qyburn had mysteriously disappeared, for which she felt her heart sink.

When she reluctantly shifted her head to the left and met her handmaiden’s gaze, she found Shae intently studying Sansa’s movements, how her fingers picked at a loose thread on her gown, and then how the fingers of her right hand came to toy with her wedding ring. The way Shae’s eyes squinted when she glared at Sansa reminded her of one of those venomous snakes from the land of Dorne, their-slit like pupils, her eyes almost black in color. She did not know where this line of questioning was coming from, but Sansa decided she didn’t like it, but was entire unsure of how to respond to her handmaiden.

Sansa gulped nervously and her hand instinctively trailed up to clutch at the column of her throat as she thought over Shae’s strange questions. Would the fact that if she had happened to marry another, any other man but Tyrion, change the fact that Ramsay Bolton had tried to rape her this morning? Or would he still have gone after her regardless of which man she married? She scowled, knitting her brows together in quandary, frowning.

A burning animosity was developing in Shae’s dark brown eyes, and Sansa could tell that, for whatever reasons that were currently unknown to Shae, that _she_ was the root cause of whatever ailed the disgruntled handmaiden. “I…” But her voice trailed off, hesitating. For so long, especially since Father’s death, Sansa had grown used to lying through her teeth, nothing but empty words, words that were wind that hung in the air once uttered. She felt the anger flash, the urge to hide her true feelings from Shae right now.

But…the handmaiden had been kind to her, but she could trust her well enough to tell the truth? Though, these days, Sansa felt like truth was almost considered treason in an empire of lies. Lies upon which she built herself, and it would take a miracle to break that empire down and start admitting the truth to herself. That she did happen to care for him.

A lot. And she wanted to be with him, if Lord Tyrion would have her and be patient with her, for though she was a grown woman of eighteen, she had much to learn about the ways of men and how to please them. All of these strange feelings were foreign concepts to Sansa. Shae’s voice spoke up again, chilling Sansa’s insides and rendering her blood to ice. “ _Tell_. _Me_.”

At Shae’s words, Sansa could feel the beginnings of sweat bead on her brow, and it was not because of the heat in the fireplace that Qyburn had seemingly lit to provide warmth. Shae, sensing that Sansa was not immediately going to answer, glowered and turned her heels, preparing to leave, tossing her dark hair over her shoulders, but Sansa, at last, miraculously seemed to have found her voice. Even Qyburn’s attentions were hooked in, who had returned from whatever dark crevice he had disappeared to, and it was only then that Sansa realized the horrible ear-piercing screams from down below had ceased.

“When I was asleep earlier…” Sansa began hesitantly, painfully twisting her hands together, her nails digging into the skin of her palms, hard enough to bleed. “I…thought I heard Lord Tyrion’s voice calling to me. Trying to…trying to get me to wake up.” She blinked and swallowed as the edges her eyes moistened and made them glitter with tears.

Shae seemed to halt in her steps and without hesitating, she answered her lady. “It was a dream, milady. You should rest. You have been through enough, but…you did not answer my original question, Lady Stark. Your wedding to Ty—Lord Tyrion,” she corrected quickly, though there was no mistaking the blush that speckled along her cheeks, “do you want this for yourself?” Sansa felt her hackles bristle and she sincerely hoped that Shae witnessed the antagonism flaring in Sansa’s cobalt blue eyes as they flashed angrily.

Sansa wracked her brain for something useful to say to ease the tensions in the cold, dim, drafty room that was an assault to the senses, smelling of dirty water, and mold. She crinkled her nose in disgust and raked her hands through her auburn tresses, toying with a lock of her hair. Sansa could feel the throbbing of her own eyes behind their lids, and the thumping of her chest at her handmaiden’s insistence. Hesitantly, her blue eyes drifted upward to dare to meet Shae’s gaze, who was rather impatiently awaiting her answer.

The fear engulfed her conscience, churning her stomach in tense cramps. However, most of all, the fear she felt at having to offer up a sincere, truthful answer to her handmaiden in regards to her admission of her feelings for Lord Tyrion was making her feel strangely calm and at ease, and that was what scared Sansa the most.


	14. Shae

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate making Sanrion suffer, or upset, or angry, or any other emotion that's not happy, but I really* don't like Shae and felt the things that were said in this chapter needed to be said. If it's too much for you, you can skip to the end of the chapter for a funny Qyburn moment :)

** Shae **

Shae felt her blood curdle and sour within her veins like lemon with milk as she looked up Sansa Stark, this strange material of beauty, this—this _child_ , though no little girl was she at eighteen, but admittedly much prettier than Shae, and had the one thing that Shae would never have again: her lion’s affections and the royal blood that Shae lacked.

The handmaiden and disgraced former lover of her lion could not hide the frown that formed, tugging the edges of her lips downward. The bruises on her right cheek and above one of her browbones were grotesque to look upon, ruining what otherwise would have been an unspoiled visage. Yet, despite this, the fact remained that her lion’s wife remained as lovely as the sunrise itself and Shae felt an immense jealousy brood into her own face. Her nostrils flared at the thought of Tyrion fucking this girl.

Sansa Stark’s face was one of confusion and Lord Tyrion as he re-entered struggling to balance a tray of food until Maester Qyburn took pity on her lion and removed the tray from Lord Tyrion and gingerly set it on a side table placed next to the meager cot he’d set up for his patients. Shae glanced towards Lord Tyrion, whose face flushed pink, and Shae realized she had held her gaze too long, and she felt the color drain from her face as it blanched, and Sansa Stark promptly looked away. Her face was strangely one of victorious triumph.

Which made her next spoken word hurt even more. “Yes.”

Just one word, but it was more than enough for Shae. Shae felt her lips twist upwards into a grimace as she folded her arms across her chest. She missed her little lion bad enough that her heart ached, and she could feel the heat pooling between her legs at night as the heat of missing his company overwhelmed her. Shae missed how his lips would ravage hers, how he would fuck her until it felt like she could no longer walk in a straight line when he was finished.

Shae could feel the pit forming uncomfortably in her stomach as she realized what heart Tyrion did possess, was now hers. Sansa’s. The Stark girl had everything Shae had ever wanted. Lord Varys’s words to her a few days ago had been right in his assumption.

“ _She is a sweet, young thing. None of this is her fault. But I expect this is not easy for you. She’s young, beautiful, highborn. We learn the language, but we’ll never be their countrymen. But if you let yourself believe that a foreign girl with no name could spend her life with the son of Tywin Lannister, then you are sorely mistaken and quite foolish. Tyrion Lannister is one of the few people alive who can make this world a better place. He has the mind, the will for it, and the right last name, but he lacks an heir. But you…you are a complication. I know that you love him, but our little lord is now a married man, and like it or not, I see how he looks at Sansa Stark, like nothing else exists half the time except for her. I know that it hurts you, this way, by staying. I know that it’s true love not bought by gold or silver. I ask that you leave because your presence in the capitol endangers Tyrion.”_

Shae blinked and watched, blood boiling and her mind raging war as she watched as Tyrion hopped up on the bed and whispered something to Sansa Stark in a low murmur. His voice was too low for Shae to make out anything of what was being said, but it did nothing to quell the uncontrollable jealousy that seeped through her veins like a poison.

He used to whisper sweet nothings into her ear, and now, she had to watch him do this to his wife. By the gods, were they such cruel cunts, these new and old gods, to do this to her? Apparently, they were.

Her gaze drifted down to Sansa’s hands, which previously had been curled over the blanket in a tight vice grip, had loosened their ironclad grip on the itchy woolen thing and settled over top Tyrion’s and she felt her blood bristle as she watched as Sansa plucked a red grape from off the plate and silently fed one to Tyrion.

Shae could not stop the jealousy that tumbled from her mouth. “You two are getting rather _cozy_ , aren’t you?” she snapped, hearing the venom drip from her tone like poisoned honey and she flinched. Shae rolled her eyes in disgust at Sansa Stark’s weakness. _Timid. Afraid. Spineless. She’s afraid of him._ She huffed in frustration and glanced around, surprised at how dark the chamber was.

No candles were lit, save for the one that lay perched in the windowsill, the flames flickering, dying slowly. _Like I wish their marriage would_ , thought Shae bitterly, her dark eyes flashing in anger, though for the sake of appearances, given either Tyrion or Shae could have her hanged for her insolence, she forced a smile on her face and curtsied.

“Forgive me, Lady Sansa,” she mumbled, the heat creeping to her cheeks. “I meant no offense. It has…been a long day and I was worried when the news came of your attack. I did not mean to speak out of turn.”

Shae actively tried to avoid Lord Tyrion’s gaze as his brow furrowed into a frown and he glared at Shae, and her blush deepened. “Shae, please don’t do this…” he began hesitantly, but his voice trailed off as he felt Sansa’s hand drift over top of his and give his hand a gentle squeeze.

“It is all right, milord,” Sansa spoke up, and even her husband flinched at the coldness that had seeped into Sansa’s normally kind tone.

Shae felt her face forcefully mold into a fake smile, thinking that life would be easier this way. To try to be kind to others, compliment them, though it only made her life more difficult these days, especially now.

But then Lord Tyrion had entered into her life, and he had been one of the few men in her life who had not fallen for her fake little smile.

Shae liked to think she had mastered her fake smile, right down to the wrinkles around her heavily-lidded eyes. No one had ever dared to question her except for one person. Tyrion saw in her eyes, the windows to whatever soul she was fortunate enough to possess. Shae paused, reflecting on one of the first things her proud little lion ever said to her.

 _Your expression is always the same,_ Tyrion had said to her once after a good fucking as they’d rested in his bed. His words had taken Shae by surprise, and before she knew it, that was the day she had fallen for him.

It was not that hard, considering he was hers, and she was his. Or so she had thought. The days had passed as quick as the sunlight. Shae didn’t even know how it had happened, how she had fallen in love with him.

But eventually, her fake smile turned real. And now, she never smiled. Because of… _this_. ‘This’, being Lord Tyrion’s wife, who was currently seeking comfort in his warm embrace, though a strange listlessness rested in Sansa Stark’s cobalt blue eyes, and Shae seethed.

Sansa’s reluctant handmaiden allowed herself to fully hate Sansa and allowed herself to meet the young redhead’s gaze as she snatched the now empty tray off the wooden table and slammed it down with more force than she thought necessary. Shae did not flinch or turn away from Tyrion’s wife’s questioning gaze, though if Shae were not mistaken, a light had dawned in her eyes as Sansa no doubt took notice of Shae’s red-rimmed irises, dry, though currently moistening with unshed tears.

Shae wanted to be able to see the Stark girl’s eyes. Shae felt her lips curve up into a twisted sort of grimace and stared into Sansa’s eyes, determined not to look away first, though the screaming, fuming voices inside her head raged and ranted at her, creating a terrible pounding at the base of her skull, as visions of Sansa’s lifeless corpse laying lifelessly in front of her consumed her mind. Shae became certain that Lady Sansa knew that Shae was trying to hide her newfound feelings of immense dislike for her now that she had wedded and would soon bed _her_ lion.

But still. She was bound and determined to fool Lord Tyrion’s wife, and him too, if she could help it. Shae contorted her lips into an awkward, toothy smile that already, both knew women knew did not meet her eyes, and she suspected that Tyrion knew it too, judging by the darkening cerulean hue in her lion’s brilliant azure eyes as he glared.

Shae inhaled a sharp breath of cold frigid air that pained her lungs as she heard the Stark girl let out a tired sigh, and she felt herself blink once, twice, as she watched in disbelief as Sansa Stark took initiative and did something that she had not expected the younger girl would ever do.

Sansa rested her forehead against Tyrion’s, and the tiny ghost of a smile etched its way onto her features and Shae watched, distraught, as the corners of the little lord’s wife lifted upward into a smile and it hurt, because the cut on her swelling lip was still bleeding a little, but she did not even flinch or make so much as a movement as Tyrion swiftly swiped the forming bead of crimson blood forming on her lip with one smooth movement of the pad of his thumb. She let her smile widen into a soft grin at the simple gesture and brought up both her hands to caress either side of his face. “Thank you,” she whispered, the ghost of her breath on his face. Tyrion seemed to sink into her embrace and melt into her hold.

“F—for what?” Tyrion stammered, a pink blush speckling along his cheeks. “I…have done nothing for you, wife. I should have been there.”

“But you _were_ and that is more than enough for me that you came, in the end. It _is_ , milord.” Sansa answered simply, noticing the expression on her husband’s face, seeing that he did not quite believe her words, that it had in fact been enough for Sansa. She bit her bottom lip and hesitated, her blue eyes moistening and glistening with unshed tears. “You were there with Brienne. You talked to me. I—I heard you in my sleep,” she confessed, her blush deepening. “A—and you remembered my favorites are lemon cakes,” she added, gesturing towards the tray that still held several lemon cakes and a half loaf of bread, a rind of cheese.

“About the _only_ thing I remembered of what you like, milady,” Tyrion mumbled, sounding thoroughly disgruntled and put off.

Sansa smiled and made no move to remove her forehead from resting against Tyrion’s. Shae noticed how her lion’s body tensed and she could hear his breaths hitching in his throat, as though not entirely sure how to react to what his wife was doing, the sudden shift within her.

“It is enough for now. We have plenty time to get to know one another better,” she murmured, the pads of her fingertips ghosting along the jagged edges of his scar. Sansa stuck out her bottom lip in a slight pout and bit down hard on her lip, hesitating, azure eyes moistening.

“I—I’d like to…to try something,” Tyrion’s wife whispered, lowering her voice to a low murmuring. “If that is…all right with you.”

Tyron mutely nodded, not sure at all how to react to whatever was happening with Lady Sansa. They both seemed to know it was coming.

Sansa did not remove her hands from either side of Tyrion’s face. Tyrion hesitantly looked at his wife. The swirls of emotions swimming in Sansa’s eyes made him ponder what the hell it was that she wanted with the likes of him. A look that could only be described as desire and affection met his quizzical gaze, unblinking and unwavering.

However, before Tyrion could ponder about it further, whatever it was that his wife wanted to try, she cradled his face in her hands and covered his mouth with a hungry kiss. As their lips met, it felt like he was walking on air. It was witchcraft, magic, the way Sansa’s lips connected with his. Her mouth was so warm, the caress of her lips softer than he could have ever imagined, and he opened his mouth with a low, surprised moan. Sparks felt like they flew in every direction, and it seemed to Shae that despite that the fact that her kiss was small yet warm, it was…different. Not like it had been with _her_. Sansa’s hands looked like they were moving of their own accord, her hands wrapping around Lord Tyrion’s neck as she pulled him closer, closing off the gap of space.

Her hands on the back of his neck played with the ends of his hair. A smile grew on Tyrion’s face as it startled to tickle and she pulled apart.

As they parted, Shae saw her lion’s azure blue eyes sparkle with an emotion she had always longed to see there, directed at her. For her.

Because of her. Tyrion’s lips curved in a gentle smile and Sansa could not help but smile back. No words were spoken between the couple, but they needed not to speak, for in their own way, they were already silently communicating, seemingly having forgotten about Shae.

Shae watched, bristling and unable to move, feeling like her feet were rooted to the floor. It hit her hard. Sansa’s words to her husband like nails and hammers breaking her heart apart. This didn’t feel real.

A nightmare come true. Shae found herself wanting to wake up. But that never happened. She heard her mind screaming to the old gods and the new, wondering how it was possible for them to inflict so much pain inside her chest. She was alone. Completely, utterly alone, without her little lion to comfort her. Who would hold her hand now, surprise her with hugs from behind that barely came up to her midriff, though those only made her love him all the more. Who would tell her that they were hers and she was theirs and call her beautiful? Not Lord Tyrion.

Not anyone anymore. That same someone who promised her a forever only to abandon her the moment the Stark girl entered into his life was a betrayer. Soon enough, Tyrion would forget about her.

He would forget her the way he forgot all the other whores he had fucked, the ones he’d made similar promises to. These days, he only had eyes for _her_. And even now…Shae found herself questioning if Tyrion had ever loved her as she did. Had he lied? Or were his feelings able to fade so quickly? Tyrion Lannister was a coward, fearing what his father and sister thought. A coward that she knew she should hate immensely.

Shae should hate Tyrion for ripping her heart out of her chest. Were that she could drop to the floor and bleed out on the floor, her life force removed from her the moment Sansa’s lips pressed against Tyrion’s, she would. It would be better than to stand here and suffer in agony like this.

She should be angry with her lion, but she just could not. She worried for him…and wished the best for him. She would have done anything for Tyrion. She…she loved him. Shae wanted to be the very best for her lion, but her best was never enough to satisfy the lord, was it?

Shae knew that now. Maybe that was what hurt her the most, and Shae did not bother to stop the bitter stream of putrid, poisonous words that flowed from her tongue. “You do not want this marriage, Sansa.”

Sansa blinked owlishly at Shae, reluctantly tearing her gaze away from that of her lord husband’s, who was, Shae bristled at seeing this, looking stunned at what his wife had just done, though looking like he had enjoyed it immensely, which only added salt to the already tender wound that was her broken heart. “How long have you loved him?”

Shae felt her face drain of what little color there was left in it to begin with as she felt her jaw drop open in shock and horror. Her heart began to rattle and pound like a wild beast against its chains, screaming at her, so audibly loud, she was surprised the Imp’s wife couldn’t hear it.

Sansa’s cobalt eyes lit with understanding and her grip over top of Lord Tyrion’s hand tightened, the other hand absently playing with a few strands of his dirty blond hair, entangling themselves in Tyrion’s curls.

“I know you were his…companion…to warm his bed,” she began after a moment’s hesitation, choosing to ignore Lord Tyrion’s blush speckling along his cheeks. “But those days I am afraid are over, Shae. His lord father seems to think that I might hold a chance at…removing some of the…stain upon the Lannister family name by providing a child. It is my sworn duty to my lord husband to try to uphold that promise and honor our vows, and we cannot do that with you in the picture. You are…a _distraction_ , and I am sad to say that this cannot continue, Shae. I cannot keep you as my handmaiden anymore, as much as it pains me to say this,” and it was true. Shae could see at that much. The girl had never been a good liar, and she did have a strangely pained look on her face. “Whatever the two of you might have had, it is done. Over with. I have taken your place, for did you _truly_ think that someone like you could _ever_ be wed to a Lannister?” Her question, while posed innocently enough, was laced with bitterness and just a twinge of jealousy.

Shae lifted her chin to meet Sansa Stark’s gaze and was surprised to see the young redhead had bared her canines, and for a moment, the handmaiden found herself afraid as her blood chilled to ice in her veins.

She looked…wolfish. Predatory. Possessive. This. _This_ was the She-Wolf of Winterfell of the North that she had heard the many whispers of.

Shae felt her facial muscles tense and harden. “She does not want you, my lion,” she heard herself speak, to which Tyrion immediately interrupted. “She does not want you and she does not love you like I—”

Tyrion let out a low warning growl from the back of his throat. “I am a married man. My wife has suffered a great deal. I don’t want her to suffer anymore on my account. _I need to do right by her_. By our children,” Lord Tyrion growled. “I think it best if you leave right now.”

Shae could not move. She could not think. She could not do anything except stare at the man and woman who had betrayed her. Shae had no words, for she could not think of an apt response to formulate in her mind. Visions of scarlet red danced in front of her line of sight as she imagined dozens of ways to ruin Lord Tyrion Lannister’s life. Each one more bloody and violent and cruel than the last scenario.

Sansa must have sensed that the two of them had gotten to her, for she let out a sigh and buried her hand in the back of Lord Tyrion’s hair.

Her gaze hardened as her eyes remained fixated upon Shae’s, whose eyes were brimming with unshed tears. Her expression softened slightly.

Sansa bit her bottom lip in hesitation. “I would not see you again near my husband, Shae. There is a boat in the harbor waiting to take you to Pentos. We can provide you with enough gold to live an incredibly comfortable and safe life in Pentos. You will be well provided for, Shae.”

Shae blinked back briny tears and swallowed past the lump in her throat. “ _No_.” Her voice cracked and wavered, as did her newfound resolve. She felt her hands ball into fists. “I will not leave, Lady Stark.”

Lord Tyrion’s head whiplashed so sharply upwards to regard Sansa’s former handmaiden’s disobedience of a direct order that Sansa had to move her head back in order to avoid connecting with it. “ _What_ did you just say?” he demanded, his jaw clenching and blue eyes darkening in anger. He stiffened and let out a tired sigh as he felt Sansa’s hand come to rest on his shoulder in an attempt to quell his rapidly swelling temper.

“I think you should leave now before you make things worse for yourself, Shae,” Sansa offered quietly, her tone clipped and quite hard.

Shae bristled, her nails digging into the skin of her palms. “She doesn’t _want_ you, my lion, and I _know_ that you don’t want your wife. I don’t think you should—” she started to say, but Lord Tyrion cut her off suddenly, not giving Shae a chance to finish as his face paled in anger.

“ **GET OUT**!” he roared, and even Sansa flinched at the hurt in his voice, though the tension in his body seemed to leave the longer Sansa raked her fingers through his hair, smoothing it and toying with his strands. “We’ve told you to leave so _go_! That’s an order! You’re a _whore_ , Shae! _Sansa is my wife_. Sansa is fit to bear my children and you are _not_! I—I can’t have children with a _whore_. How many men have you been with? _Five hundred? Five thousand_?” he growled venomously through gritted teeth, his words sounding like bitter poison settling on his tongue.

Humiliated, Shae felt hot tears welling in her eyes, stinging, and blurring her vision. “Y—your wife is just jealous because the two of you could never have a bond like you and I shared. How many whores have you been with?” she growled through gritted teeth. “I—I know you don’t mean that, my lion…you are just saying these things to hurt me.”

But Tyrion did not look at her. His gaze remained fixated on Sansa, and when he spoke to Shae, his voice was listless and devoid of warmth.

“You will have a comfortable life in Pentos, Shae. We will ensure it. You should take this opportunity before it’s too late. If you remain in King’s Landing, I can ensure you that it will not end well for you. My sister knows. If you remain here, then you will assuredly die. This is your one and only chance. Don’t be a bloody fool. Ser Bronn will escort you to your ship, Shae. Our…friendship can no longer continue as it once was. Sansa is my wife, and I made a promise to her to uphold my vows. I—I have to do right before. I care for her, Shae. I _do_. Now, I think you need to leave. _Go_. Right now. _Do not make me say it again_. Before you get hurt.” His last words were bitter and spat more than spoken. Shae blinked back salty tears as she struggled to force air to return to her lungs

. The moment that she realized she had misinterpreted her lion’s actions, his words, his expressions for so many weeks, as if he had been speaking ancient Dothraki or some other language she couldn’t understand, the moment her words failed her was the moment her heart broke. “You only care for her because she is what I am not. Of noble blood. That is the only difference between she and I, and… she’s perfect.”

Sansa blinked, her face draining of color and her brows came together in a frown. “I am far from perfect, Shae,” she said softly.

“Yes, you are!” Shae screamed, balling her hands into fists. “You, you’re perfect!”

Sansa bristled, seeming to fight off a dozen possible retorts in her mind that she could fire off, but when at last she seemed to regain control of her voice, it was calm and collected. “Tell me, then. Tell me. I’d love to know what someone like you thinks of a girl like me,” she hissed.

“People—people like you don’t know!” Shae screamed, though she did not look at Sansa. She had eyes only for him. He who had so cruelly ripped out her heart and crushed it in the palm of his hand. “Y—you are beautiful, milady, you have no idea what I’ve been through in my life!” Shae screamed, unable to stop the cascade of tears from flowing down her cheeks in unceasing tracts, dripping onto the floor at her feet. “People like you have everything handed to them on a silver platter! People like you don’t have feelings!” she roared, folding her arms across her chest.

The paralyzing hurt at what Lord Tyrion was initiating spread through Shae’s body like icy liquid steel. She clenched her fists and hesitantly took a step backwards, inching ever so closer to the door, though her lion made no move from Lady Sansa’s bed. Instead, if anything, his grip around Sansa’s middle tightened as his head rested against her bosom, as though he was seeking protection in her embrace.

Shae’s jaw clenched and became tight, her teeth grinding in anger. Fires in the form of water stung her dark umber orbs, threatening their attack. Shae bit her lip, casting one last lustful, longing glance towards Tyrion, who was now refusing to meet her gaze and was staring at Sansa.

Sansa, meanwhile, sat rooted to her spot in the bed, basking in the warmth of her husband’s embrace, though she felt her knuckles go white from clenching onto the back of his simple green linen shirt for comfort.

She gritted her teeth in her vain effort to remain silent. She felt her back muscles tense and grow rigid as she sat up straighter as her spirit seemed to exude an animosity that was like Wildfire—burning, searing, and potent. In a fit of anger, she snatched a goblet of dreamwine that Qyburn offered her, mumbling a half-hearted apology under his breath.

Shae had to duck to narrowly avoid her head connecting with the golden goblet and leapt back to avoid her sandals splashed with the sticky red liquid. “You really think you can judge _me_? You have _no_ idea what I’ve been through, what I _sacrificed_ in order to get away from Joffrey!”

Lord Tyrion, whose lips had parted slightly, as if he had something to say, promptly shut them at the silent urging of Maester Qyburn, who shook his head curtly and slunk back into the shadows, leaning against a little wooden table, his arms folded across his chest, a grim look on his face, and Tyrion fell silent at Sansa’s outburst, looking utterly helpless.

Sansa took a deep, shaking breath to steady herself. “Do you think that you have the market cornered on human suffering, Shae?”

“Yes.” Shae answered bitterly, hatred laced through her voice. Salty blood lingered on her tongue as she clamped down on the appendage.

“Then that is where I am afraid that I must correct you, Shae. You do not know. You know _nothing_. Far from it, my friend,” Sansa retorted coldly. She sat up straighter and ignored Tyrion’s quiet murmurings to lay back and rest. “Let me tell you something about how life here in King’s Landing and anywhere else on this godforsaken earth works,” she cried. There was a pained look in her blue eyes, a sadness that brimmed in the corners of Sansa Stark’s eyes. “People like me feel _little_ and _lost_ and _ugly_. Our choices are removed from us. We do not get to choose who we love. People like me have husbands sleeping with someone else far more _perfect_ than me!” she shouted, tears flowing freely down Sansa’s cheeks. She either did not notice or was choosing to ignore the pained look in Lord Tyrion’s eyes. “I—I’ve screamed horrible things to our King! A—and I… _hate_ him!” she yelled, angrily reaching up a trembling hand to flick a tear away as it threatened escape. “A—and then…whenever he looks at me with such…anger, and I hate him then!” Sansa swallowed past the lump in her throat and glanced down her nose at Lord Tyrion. “I _know_ I’ve failed you. I _know_ I’ve disappointed you; I _know_ you deserve better than me, but we don’t have a _choice_!” She made a muffled little noise in the back of her throat and rested her chin on top of Tyrion’s hair. “It—it feels like every morning, I—I wake up and…I fail. I look around and everybody else seems to be pulling up and going places, but somehow, I—I can’t. Somehow, I’ll never be enough for anybody…”

Sansa swallowed and couldn’t stop her tears as the walls within the confines of heart, the very walls that made her strong, just…crumbled.

She couldn’t seem to stop her tears as she coughed once, a hand over her mouth to cover it and she let out a little shudder, though not of revulsion as she felt Tyrion’s hand graze near the skin of her collarbones.

Sansa glanced down at Lord Tyrion, who had seemingly frozen, at a loss for what to do, though if she and Shae weren’t mistaken, his expression softened as his lips parted open, as he struggled to think of what to say. He, the man of many words, had been rendered speechless.

As much as Sansa tired to hold it in, her pains came anyways as the taxation of the stress of humiliating King Joffrey the other night and this morning with the unexpected ‘surprise’ visit from Ramsay Bolton caught up to her and she blinked back briny tears and the colors of Maester Qyburn’s dimly lit laboratory around her began to fade and blur in her vision as her sobs punched through, ripping through her muscles.

She felt…hollow. When she cried, there was rawness to it, her pain an open wound. Her cries were stifled at first as she attempted to conceal her grief, weeks of buildup from abuse from Joffrey, and then overcome by waves of emotions that she had no control over, so she broke completely, her spirit shattered entirely in the span of a second, all her defenses she'd spent years building washed away in her tears.

As she turned to face Lord Tyrion, he was shocked to see her face was the absolute picture of devastation, loss, and grief. Hers was the face of someone who had suffered before and didn't know if she could do it again. Her life crumbled in her fingertips as she buried her face in her hands, not wanting to look at him and see the pained look in his brown eyes as he remained silent, not knowing what to say to make her feel better, to apologize for the mess of their marriage he’d made.

Sansa blinked and blearily lifted her head, when at last Tyrion found his voice and spoke to her, his voice lowered an octave and soothing.

“You’re much more than enough.” Though Lord Tyrion’s voice cracked and there was a strange moisture glistening in his eyes, not quite on the brink of tears, but enough for both women to know he meant every single word, was more than enough for Shae to confirm the truth.

That he did not, and perhaps had never loved her. Shae swallowed.

His comment offered as an attempt to quell the raging war within the confines of Sansa’s mind only made her tears come harder. She sniffed and coughed, and shakily rose to her feet, though her equilibrium still proved to be off balance as it was quickly proven when she stood, a hand against the cold stone wall to support herself and she pitched forward.

Sansa would have fallen had Maester Qyburn not rushed forward to catch up and drape one of her arms around her shoulder. Lord Tyrion slid off the edge of the bed and made to follow her, though she shook her head. “I—I need some air, milord Tyrion,” she mumbled, in a shy voice. “By myself, if you please,” Sansa whispered, reaching up a hand and brushing away the last of her tears with a well-practiced flip of her finger, cursing herself for being so vulnerable, something she’d sworn never to be again the moment their King Joffrey ordered her lord father executed.

Sansa’s eyes blazed as she passed by Shae, limping forward towards the exit, careful not to put too much strain on her ankle, assisted by Maester Qyburn as she picked up the skirts of her gown slightly to avoid tripping over the long hem and stormed out of Maester Qyburn’s chambers, leaving both her lord husband and former handmaiden in a stunned, eerie silence, to think about her words and if they were true.

Shae felt her brain pick up her feet in an unbalanced gait, carelessly dropping her feet to the ground with each harrowing step as she strode towards the exit in the same direction that Sansa Stark was heading for.

Her stomach felt full of stones, and the thick acid of her stomach layering coated at the back of her throat, and she thought she might vomit.

Lord Tyrion had finally finished with her. And she was helpless to do anything about it. Still, something about the forlorn look in the man’s eyes prompted Shae to ask one final question of her little lion, the most brutally cutting thing she could think of to tear this betrayer down with.

Her fucking name.

“Do you think that Sansa could ever grow to love you?” Shae growled, biting her bottom lip until she felt the blood coat her tongue and the edges of her teeth. “Hmm? You are lying to yourself if you think this to be true. _She will never love you_ , my lion. Not like I did. Not like I _do_.”

Shae growled her words through clenched teeth and rooted jaw, her fists clenching and un-clenching at her sides as she allowed them to hang limply, not really sure what to do with her hands. Shae folded her arms across her chest and watched, feeling a sickening feeling of immense satisfaction as Lord Tyrion startled and his face flushed red in anger.

He clearly had not been anticipating her final question and it had thrown the Imp off guard. “Just get out. Leave. And don’t come back.”

His voice cracked, wavering as he blinked rapidly and looked away. Shae sneered, masking her hurt with that look of impassiveness she’d learned to master over the years. She slammed the door to Maester Qyburn’s chambers on the way out, loud, and hard enough that the oak door rattled the frame and its hinges, though Shae hoped it was enough to rattle his stupid brain in his stupid fucking skull. Anger at the Stark girl boiled deep in Shae’s system, as hot as any dragon fire and just as destructive, if not more. It churned within, hungry for destruction, and even Shae knew it was entirely too violent for her to handle right now.

This pressure of this raging sea of red she felt pounding at the back of her skull would force the former handmaiden of Sansa Stark to say things that she did not mean, or to express her true thoughts of Sansa.

Shae knew she had to get out of everyone’s way before she was apt to erupt in her furious, heartbroken state. She hoped in time this feeling would pass, but as long as her lion remained married to the wolf, she knew it would linger. Shae allowed her swirling vortex of hateful thoughts towards the Stark woman and what Lord Tyrion had done to consume her, relishing the curses that poured from her tongue, spewing from her mouth like black, putrid bile.

As she stomped down the hallways and out onto the bailey for some much needed air, Shae felt like she was slowly emerging from the rage and anger she had possessed only moments ago, though she was barely aware of the tears flowing down her cheeks in graceful tracts. She felt…

 _Furious_. Shae ground her teeth in anger, her knuckles gripping the railing of the ledge as she breathed deep. In and out, several times. Her lion had said that he had loved her, and Shae had foolishly taken him at his word. He had over the glorious weeks of fucking their brains out and enjoying each other’s company, become the bedrock of her personality.

Then that fateful day, he announced of his marriage to Sansa Stark, and Shae had seen it in the Imp’s eyes how he was already falling fast and hard in love with the girl. Sansa Stark was a diamond in the rough.

And Shae hated diamonds, she hated diamonds so much, she was willing to bury them six feet under on the deepest pit of the seventh layer of Hell itself. It would have been just kinder if Tyrion were to kill her.

Now, she was forced to be this person filled with a bitterness she could not control. If it would not wound her Lion Lord so badly, she would see the Stark bitch somehow buried six feet under and walk away.

And she would not shed a single tear. The girl he met all those months ago in his tent, the one with the big eyes and the bigger heart was now consumed by a hatred so poisonous and bitter she never knew could take such a hold on that throbbing mass of corded muscle in her chest.

But here it was. Here she was. Shae was yesterday’s news and Sansa Stark now his world. All the while she was forced to smile and make small talk. The hatred she felt for Lord Tyrion and Sansa Stark didn’t ebb.

It multiplied.

* * *

Maester Qyburn emanated a tense exhale through his nostrils and cocked his head to the side, gingerly closing the door behind him and resting his back against the door’s frame as he and Lord Tyrion stared blankly after the now empty open doorway where Sansa and Shae had both exited, a look of exasperation in his eyes as his eyes widened with shock and surprise, his shoulders slumping in relief. 

He folded his arms across his chest and let out a heavy sigh, glancing over his shoulder at the door.

“Well,” Qyburn said after a long silence. “That went even worse than I expected.”


	15. Sansa

** Sansa **

The early breeze the afternoon of King Joffrey’s wedding feast two days following the confrontation with Shae in Qyburn’s chambers and the incident with Lord Roose’s bastard son in their bedchambers, carried with it fine drops, each one a promise of the rain to come, and there were a few cautious tittering’s among the wedding guests pondering if the encroaching thunderstorm would ruin the festivities.

As newly chilled, slightly bitter air moved the breeze in King’s Landing, streaks of brilliance poked through from a patient sun. Sansa let her eyes rest a moment, feeling the ambiance of the festivities, hearing the sounds, taking in the aroma, just letting her mind be still as she exhaled slowly through her nose. 

The breeze carried with it fragrances of the earth, soft after the washing of an early morning rain that drenched the cobblestoned streets and a sweet and steady of joy for most in attendance of King Joffrey and Queen Margaery’s wedding.

All except for her and Lord Tyrion. Sansa furrowed her eyebrows into a delicate frown and glanced up at the head of the rectangular wooden table, and then back to Lord Tyrion, who wore an equally displeased expression on his face. 

The courtyard seemed to buzz with excited chatter and small children ran between the tables, offspring of nobles in attendance in a good natured game of tag. Then the bride and groom rose from their seats to welcome their entertainment, and Sansa’s heart sank as she realized it was a troupe of dwarves.

A muscle in Tyrion’s jaw twitched and he watched, his own frown deepening as the performance commenced and King Joffrey’s wicked smirk twisted even further, giving his smile more the appearance of a grimace as he held out a small pouch, and the jingling and clanking of gold and silver coins could be heard within. 

“Wonderful performance. Here you are. The champion’s purse. Though…you’re not the champion yet, are you?” he snorted, and he withdrew his arm and clutched the pouch of coins tighter to his person, fingering it tenderly.

He lifted his gaze and met Sansa’s eyes and she felt her face become ashen and clammy, beads of sweat forming on her brow. She swallowed past the lump in her throat and quickly averted her gaze, glancing down at her barely touched plate of food, resting her hands in her lap, and she breathed out a strangely content little sigh as she felt his hand come to rest overtop of hers and give it a squeeze.

She had not been able to stop thinking of the kiss she had given him the other night. How she had kissed him because…she had _wanted_ to, and while this revelation had not exactly left her surprised, but with a strange feeling that she was not quite certain that she wanted to feel.

For one, there was the matter of his short stature, and though she had heard rumors from the women his young squire Podrick Payne was spending increasing amounts of time with that despite the height difference, he was quite skilled in the matters of physical pleasure, and was often patient with them and they listened to what he wanted, and they pleasured him to the best of their ability in exchange for the man’s gold coins. She froze.

She could not even begin to think that she was even _considering_ taking advice from a woman who worked in Baelish’s disgusting hovel that he dared to call a brothel, that wretched, putrid, broken little flesh market of his that he ran. Though Sansa was not ashamed that she rather liked the woman who she had sought the company of in the gardens underneath the arboretum, much to the astonishment of the various walkers strolling throughout the gardens last night.

Ros. A rather busty redhead, but a kind enough girl, Sansa supposed. She winced as she felt a light pink blush speckle along her cheeks as she hoped her lord husband would never find out that she had sought out the appointment of a whore. The other redhead woman had nothing but kind things to say regarding her time spent with Lord Tyrion Lannister, a total of exactly two times, and Sansa could tell in the girl’s eyes, that she meant every word. Her words were not just one of flattery, which had left Sansa feeling immensely confused regarding love.

They said that it was pleasurable, and just that thought alone plastered a quiet vibration underneath her skin and she shivered, her eyes cast downward. _Am I ready for this?_ Women said that the experience was like nothing else. So enjoyable in fact, that men would pay women like Ros for it, to touch women’s breasts and the pit between their legs. Sansa frowned and her frown deepened.

She had never bothered to explore her own body growing up. She had never needed to, though she remembered the day that she had cursed King Joffrey Baratheon for tossing her aside in favor of Margaery. Her lord mother and father and the nobles of the North all had told her that she was beautiful and bright.

But if that were the case, if she _were_ beautiful, then Joffrey would not have discarded her the horrible way that he had. She would not have married Tyrion.

Though, there was a part of her that was grateful and relieved that she had. Queen Margaery had been right. That he was far from the worst Lannister of this vicious den of lions that she could have been wed to, and her husband did have a handsome face, a truly luscious head of curly hair, and Margaery had been right.

He was a rather good-looking young man, dwarf or not, even with his facial scar. “ _Especially_ with the scar,” she murmured, glancing down at her goblet, and tracing a bead of condensation that had formed outside of her cup. She blanched and made a strangled noise at the back of her throat as she realized she’d said it aloud. Sansa could practically feel Lord Tyrion’s quizzical stare burning a hole in the back of her skull as she blushed and promptly looked away, pretending to be greatly interested in her plate of untouched food. The real star of this feast, she thought bitterly, picking at a nut with the tines of her fork and letting out a sigh.

Tables laden with delicacies practically lined the entire courtyard, complete with some dishes that Sansa had never seen before, let alone tasted, lay in wait.

Roasted cows, pigs, and swan, which her lord husband had pulled a strange face of disgust and refused to touch any of it. When Sansa had questioned him as to why, Tyrion had mumbled something about spending an evening in his sister’s company, their meeting had left a bitter taste in his mouth, and for that, she did not blame him for passing on the swan. If she were forced to dine with Cersei, she’d probably never eat again, preferring to slowly starve herself to death instead.

Sansa frowned and pushed her plate away, no longer hungry. In fact, she felt quite nauseous, but Tyrion, upon noticing that she had not eaten, begged her to eat something, despite her insistence that she was not at all hungry. She sighed, settling for an apple, though mostly she rolled the piece of fruit around in her hands, staring at wistfully, before glancing up at Lord Tyrion, who looked at her.

He smiled though he looked away from her upon noticing she had caught him staring. Sansa shot him what she hoped was a reassuring smile, though even she could tell the smile did not reach her cobalt blue eyes. By the gods, were that they could be _anywhere_ else, but here. It did not escape Sansa’s attentions that his skin seemed to erupt into goose flesh every time she touched him, she noticed.

She was briefly confused by the revelation that she found she liked that she was able to elicit the kind of reaction from the man, this way she made him feel.

 _Safe_. Sansa made him feel safe. There was no other word she could think to describe it, though she found it odd. She thought it was supposed to be the other way around. Sansa had been under the impression that Lord Tyrion, as her husband, was entrusted to protect her, both her life and to defend her honor.

Though she supposed it worked both ways. As she was mulling over this thought, Lord Tyrion awkwardly cleared his throat and it broke Sansa out of her musings. She blinked and swiveled her head almost lazily to regard Tyrion.

“Thank you.” His words, although sounding sincere, sounded force, as he pushed his plate away. “Your words the other day in the…with Shae. Are they…were they true?” he asked at last, biting the wall of his cheek as he fell silent.

“Yes.” She did not even have to think on her hesitation. “You and I, we are alike in many words, milord. Discarded. Unwanted. Unloved. Cast aside. But…”

Her voice trailed off as she struggled to phrase exactly what was on her mind. Sansa let out a haggard sigh, and she stifled a smile as she felt Lord Tyrion’s hand drift to her lap under the table and settle there. It felt comforting.

“But people like you and me. We are survivors. We make the best of our situations, and given our circumstances, I would much rather be married to you than to him,” she added darkly, lowering her voice so that only Tyrion could hear as she gave a curt jerk of her head towards King Joffrey, who was still regarding her with that ice-cold stare, much to his new bride and his mother’s discomfort. “You are and always will be the best of them, Tyrion,” she said, and when she turned back around, there was a strange gathering of moisture in his blue eyes.

“You have forgotten a poor devil, Lady Stark. You are strong and resilient, stronger than most give you credit for. You stood up for me when most others would not. You have dared to show me a little compassion when most mock me for what I am. I _know_ what I am, and I would pay for less than that with my life.”

Lord Tyrion’s expression was solemn, and he gingerly took her left hand in his and brought her knuckles to his lips for a gentle kiss. Sansa stared, surprised at the man’s boldness. It startled her, though she did not deny that she liked it.

It caused her stomach to roll and butterflies to flutter within her chest. For a moment, her smile faltered as he promptly lowered her hand and let it fall, and she reluctantly placed her hand back in her lap. She wanted him to do it again.

“You will forget that poor devil,” Tyrion continued. “But he will remember. Always,” he said softly, noticing the hurt look Sansa was giving and he flinched.

“You should be kinder to yourself. I do not think you understand,” Sansa whispered, her gaze flitting from Tyrion’s towards the high table, where the king still stood clutching the small pouch of coins in his hand, watching her. Them.

Her lord husband merely grunted in response. “Tell me then, my luscious beauty with the hair like the ember flames of a dying fire what it is that I lack a general understanding of,” he challenged, never once averting his quizzical gaze.

Sansa let a light little chuckle escape her lips and playfully reached up a hand to tousle his mop of curly hair. A gesture that she noticed out of the corner of her eyes sent the young golden-haired boy-king bristling as he stood rooted to his spot.

She swallowed past the growing lump in her throat and forced herself to tear her gaze away from King Joffrey and back towards Lord Tyrion.

“That I never want you to be harmed. Ever. For you have been nothing but kind to me, and I don’t want to…chase you away or to put you in harm’s way. I do not think that I could live with myself as your wife if I allowed that to happen, sir.”

Lord Tyrion seemed startled by her words, and Sansa might have laughed at the stunned expression on his face were the moment and her words not serious.

“Th—thank you,” he stammered, though there was no mistaking the dip and crack in his voice as it wavered, which Sansa thought privately was rather endearing. The Lion Lord of Many Words, he who was so rarely at a loss for words seemed to grow flustered and did not often times know what to say to her.

It seemed to take him a moment to find his voice again, and when he did, it seemed rougher, coarser than before. “When we…when we talk,” he began hesitantly, looking away for a moment as though needing to compose himself and figure out how to exactly phrase what was ailing his troubled mind, “you choose to focus on my eyes and my face,” he said cautiously, noticing the catch in his wife’s breath as it caught her throat. “You don’t see… _this_ ,” he remarked bitterly, gesturing to his scar and the rest of his body, clearly loathing his short stature, which truth be told, their height difference was not as bad as he made it out to be.

He was just shy of five feet tall, Sansa surmised, on a good day, and Tyrion had a handsome face, a charming Lannister smile and a wonderful voice, and that was more than enough for her, and he had been nothing but kind to her so far. Tyrion had not forced her to do anything she was not comfortable with.

“When you look at me, I know you don’t see…all _this_ ,” he continued, the self-loathing in his tone unmistakable as he gestured to his scar, his stare intensifying. “You see something different. What is it that you see, wife? Tell me.”

“You. Just you.” Sansa answered promptly, not even needing to think about her response. “There is more to you that you have to offer this world, milord. You have done everything right by me so far. You have accepted me into your life for who I am, not for who you want me to be, or for who everyone else wants…”

“I just want you to be happy,” Tyrion urged, furrowing his brows into a frown. “You—” But her husband did not have a chance to finish his sentence as a remark from King Joffrey commanded the crowd’s attentions, or more specifically, Lord Tyrion’s, and the entire courtyard fell silent and stood in wait.

“Our performers are not the champions, yet are they! I'm sure there's someone out here who would dare challenge my reign? Uncle? How about you? I’m sure our performers have a spare costume.”

Sansa bristled as Tyrion smiled and rose from his chair. “One taste of combat was enough for me, nephew. I should like to keep what remains of my face. I think it should be who you fight him. Show everyone how a true king wins his battles, and of your bravery on the battlefield. I speak as a firsthand witness.”

Sansa stiffened as she noticed King Joffrey saunter over behind the high table and towards the end of the table, towards Lord Tyrion’s seat, a dangerously calm expression on his face.

“Oh, no, please don’t,” she whispered, and her heart sank as the boy-king closed off the gap of space and poured what wine remained in his goblet over Tyrion’s head, effectively drenching his hair and his clothing.

The look of loathing in his eyes was unmistakable as the King ordered his uncle to fill his goblet with wine. Sansa was not at all sure she liked the look in the King’s eyes.

She could not help but to notice Queen Margaery shooting Sansa sympathetic looks every now and occasionally, to her lord husband as well, which she could tell Tyrion appreciated. King Joffrey’s cobalt eyes narrowed to slits.

“Apologize to your uncle, Your Grace. And to me. I am your aunt now, after all, by marriage.” Sansa’s tone was clipped and hard as she watching her lord husband hold out the full goblet of wine to the King, who refused to accept it until his uncle kneeled, which Tyrion, Sansa knew, was loathe to do and he would not.

“What was that?” he snapped, his gaze intensifying as he cupped Sansa’s chin in his hand and tilted her head to the side. “What did you say, Lady Stark?”

Sansa ground her teeth in anger, knuckles white with the effort to restrain herself. Throughout the entirety of the wedding feast and up to this point, every time the vicious bastard of a golden-haired boy-king opened his mouth, Sansa only succeeded in getting angrier with King Joffrey at what he had done to her.

To her husband. At first, she swallowed the thousands of retorts that burned on her tongue, tried to smile, and shoot an apologetic look or two with her eyes, but this…humiliating her husband in front of the entire wedding crowd.

It was too much. Sansa swallowed nervously and lifted her chin slightly as best she could, given the King’s ironclad grip on her face and dared to meet Joffrey’s wrathful gaze.

“I _said_ ,” she emphasized through gritted teeth, feeling her cobalt blue eyes darken to an almost cerulean hue in color, glancing at Tyrion out of the corner of his eyes, whose face had taken upon a pallid look, his eyes wide with horror and he silently shook his head no, pleading with her to stop. “That you must apologize, Your Grace. The man is your uncle and I your aunt and he does not deserve what you say. Lord Tyrion saved my life from you and the fiend Bolton that I know you hired somehow. How much did you pay him to rape me?” she snarled through gritted teeth. “To hear you berate your lord uncle like this is unacceptable, King,” she spat bitterly. “ _You_ are the one who needs to apologize. _Joffrey_.” Sansa no longer cared for formalities.

She was well past the point of no return and if he killed the pair of them here for her insolence, then so be it. Sansa wrenched herself out of the boy-king’s grasp, brushing her palms on the skirts of her gown, turning away, and having to stoop down slightly to grab onto Tyrion’s hand, fully intent on leading him back to their chambers to change.

It would not do to draw more attention to themselves than she already had, and Sansa decide it would be in her and Tyrion’s best interest if they were leave. Now. 

She had learned from Ros the other night that rumors were already flying of her little surprise visit by Ramsay Bolton in their bedchambers and how she had punched Joffrey Baratheon in the nose and had broken his nose something awful.

Sansa clenched her eyes shut tight and made to turn to leave when the harsh bark of King Joffrey’s shrill voice rendered the pair of them still.

“ **HOW DARE YOU TURN YOUR BACK ON ME**?” he shouted, and Sansa did not even have to turn around to imagine the vicious little boy had probably balled his fists in anger. “You have not been dismissed, Aunt Sansa! And Uncle, where do you think you’re going? You’re my cupbearer. Neither of you will change your clothes. You will both sit here until I command you to leave. Is that clear?”

When neither Sansa nor Tyrion chose to answer first, Joffrey continued. “You must be lower than shit if you think you can walk away from me, Stark, you redheaded little bitch. You will answer for your heinous actions. Do you even know who I am now, Lady Sansa?” Joffrey growled; his voice dangerously quiet.

Sansa bit her bottom lip in hesitation, and a gentle tug on the overly long sleeve of her dark forest green velvet gown commanded her attention downward.

“ _Sansa_ ,” Tyrion whisper-hissed through gritted teeth, though her husband looked more worried and concerned for her safety than he was angry. “ _Don’t_.”

Sansa cringed, desperately not wanting to turn around, for fear that she would say something that she would regret. She was all too used to this kind of behavior from the little bastard, and she swallowed as she felt the all-too familiar spark of hot anger welling like a fire seed planted in the pit of her stomach by a dragon, as it had whenever she was around vicious men like Joffrey or Ramsay.

The young redhead bit back her tongue in a desperate last effort to quell the several dozen remarks that were swirling around in her exhausted mind. But before she could stop herself, the words just sort of…poured out. “I wish that you could hear yourself, Your Grace,” Sansa sighed sadly, turning at the waist, and jutting out her chin defiantly, tossing her red wavy locks over her shoulders.

She felt her brown boot’s heels dig into the ground as she held her ground.

“I know exactly who you are, _King_ ,” she whispered angrily, though the softness of her kind, quiet voice, did not mask her current outrage to his behavior. “You are a man who has nothing,” Sansa answered steadily as she turned around slowly to face her King, who towered over her and made her feel incredibly small, though having Tyrion hold her hand and feeling his grip tighten in desperation gave her the courage to speak her mind to the boy who had ruined her life, king or not, though she knew that as she met Joffrey’s eyes, this boy was no king at all.

The little bastard needed to hear what she had to say.

“And you have allowed this hatred to consume you,” Sansa continued, feeling her voice rise an octave as she summoned every bit of courage and strength for this that she could muster. She could have sworn she heard Tyrion let out a tiny muffled groan.

She ignored her husband and continued. “You have been blinded, drunk on your own power. You have the power to stop this mindless killing in the streets, but things have worsened under your reign, and for that…” Sansa hesitated, sticking out her bottom lip in a slight pout, not really wanting to say this next part, for she was afraid of the reaction Joffrey would have, but her temper had swelled to dangerously unhealthy levels, and she was past the point of no return right now.

Sansa exhaled a shaking breath through her nose and continued. “This power has turned you into something that I can only describe as a miserable maggot, Your Grace,” she murmured, dipping her head, and dropping into a curtsy. She wasn’t entirely sure where _that_ outburst had come from, but she could only guess it was months of pent-up anger directed towards the boy for having her father executed for all of King’s Landing to see, and pain from his merciless abuse in the form of raw, unbridled anger. Sansa knew the moment her words left her mouth that they had hit their mark, for the king was not someone who was used to having a woman speak back to him as she had done just now, at his wedding feast.

She felt Tyrion take a half step forward and step in front of her as though to shield his wife from harm. She could practically feel how his body stiffened as her right knee brushed against the small of his back at the unexpected close contact, and she did not know if such closeness bothered him or not, but she didn’t care.

Her gaze was fixated upon King Joffrey, who had stumbled backwards in shock and almost tripped over a nearby stool and would have if Margaery had not moved it at the last possible second. Margaery briefly met Sansa’s gaze, and though her expression mirrored that of everyone else’s in concerned horror, Sansa could have sworn that she saw Joffrey’s Queen smile at her for her actions.

Sansa clutched at the skirts of her green gown defensively as the king advanced upon the pair of them, Tyrion tugging on her skirts to pull her away. She swallowed nervously as she looked towards the little temperamental boy-king. Sansa could tell that Joffrey Baratheon felt a horrible rage, seething deep within his bones.

“ **YOU’RE TALKING TO A KING**!” King Joffrey roared, lunging for Sansa, and clutching her face in his hands. “Unfortunately for you, _Aunt_ , this little act of defiance of yours and Uncle’s will only work against you, Stark. You’re in my crosshairs now, dear, and make no mistake, you will pay for your insolence.”

Joffrey seized Sansa’s wrist, gripping it tight enough to break it if he so desired. “ _Let go of me_!” Sansa shouted, doing her best to mask her fear and feeling she was failing miserably. By the gods and light of the seven, what had she _done_? Why, oh why could she not have minded her temper and her tongue?

She opened her mouth to plead with Lord Tyrion to help her but was cut short by the pelt of a strong hand stinging across her face. The King’s slap was as loud as a clap and stung her face. She winced and staggered backwards, clutching at her eye, where a red welt was already forming underneath the still purple bruise under her right eye, where one of King Joffrey’s golden ruby adorned rings had caught her. When the black dots had quit swimming in the front of her vision, Sansa blearily tried to focus her vision more than a few feet in front of herself.

“ _Your Grace_!” growled Lord Tyrion, and Sansa was surprised to see he’d removed his dagger that he always wore in its sheath around his waist and his fingers were curled into a protective fist around the golden hilt of the weapon. What he thought he was going to do with that, Sansa didn’t know. Kill the king?

She bit the wall of her cheek and took a faltering step backwards, more behind Tyrion. He glanced over his shoulder only the once, and the look on his face was more than enough. He was _furious_ with her for overstepping her place. Though something else lingered in his gaze, a fierce, sudden protectiveness for his wife. Tyrion exhaled tensely through his nose and turned back to the king.

“ _Let. Go. Of. My. Wife_ ,” he growled. “You will _not_ touch Sansa. _She’s my wife_ , you vicious _cunt_ ,” Lord Tyrion snarled angrily, warning the king only the once. His steadfast grip on the weapon tightened and he raised it slightly. “You cannot do this! Punish me if you must for this but you will _not_ harm your aunt.”

King Joffrey let out a warning growl of the back of his throat and did not relinquish his grip on Sansa’s wrist. If anything, his ironclad grip like steel only tightened. Sansa let out a muffled little whimper, but she did not cry out in pain. “ _I can and I am_!” the king shouted, his face reddening in anger, ignoring Queen Margaery coming up behind him, or the sudden shouts and excited murmurs of the royal wedding guests as they exclaimed in awe over the arrival of the servants carrying in the pigeon pie. “You cretinous little worm, I should have both your tongues cut out for your insolence! I should have you drawn and quartered!” snarled Joffrey through gritted teeth as his gaze flitted down to his uncle’s short form and then back to Lady Sansa’s. The King leaned down so that the tip of his now broken nose was almost touching that of Tyrion’s, and Tyrion did not flinch.

King Joffrey scoffed and reluctantly relinquished his grip upon Sansa’s wrist and turned to regard his queen, who quietly handed him a plate of pigeon pie and a flagon of fresh Dornish wine, a fine vintage. “Here is what I suggest you do, Aunt, following the commencement of our wedding feast. Given that it is my wedding day, I am feeling…rather _generous_ , wouldn’t you say, but I cannot let your little act of insubordination go unpunished. I think a fitting punishment for you, lady, is for you to come to my chambers this evening and you will proceed to take off your gown and you will lie on my bed and let me do whatever I wish….”

Sansa felt her face drain of color, her face flushing high with color and her temper swelled, and she opened her mouth to angrily retort, but was saved the trouble of responding and humiliating the bastard even further when she felt Tyrion’s grip on the sleeve of her gown tightening as he desperately tried to tug her along. “We need to leave. _Now_.”

She nodded and allowed Tyrion to start to lead her away, only to be summoned back by King Joffrey. “Uncle? Aunt? Where are you going? You cannot leave. You are my cupbearer, remember? Pour me my wine and hurry up, this pie is dry!” he commanded, his face flushing red as he waited for Tyrion to return.

Sansa was certain that she was the only one who heard Tyrion’s groan of anguish as he albeit reluctantly let go of Sansa’s hand and headed back towards the high table, took the tin flagon of wine from the table and poured his nephew a fresh goblet of wine. Tyrion took a step backward and watched, his brows furrowing into a heavy scowl as his nephew began to cough and wheeze. Sansa’s own frown deepened as she gingerly knelt and picked up King Joffrey’s fallen cup and examined the rims of the golden goblet. She sniffed it. No traces of poison that her nose could detect. No strange odor or anything.

“He’s choking!” screamed Queen Margaery, and her grandmother barked orders at the people nearby to help the poor boy, the guests, Tyrion and Sansa included, watching as King Joffrey bent over sharply as if the little-boy king had been punched in the stomach, and droplets of blood and acidic stomach bile spattered his lap and knees. Cersei bolted from her chair, screaming for help.

“Joffrey! Joffrey, what is it?” the distraught mother pleaded tearfully, noticing her son struggling to speak and raising a shaking hand and pointing at something.

Through tear-filled eyes, the Queen Regent lifted her head and Sansa inhaled a sharp breath of air that pained her ribcage and suddenly she felt sick.

Sansa’s gaze drifted downward to her cup, and everything sounded underwater. “ _They poisoned my son_. The She-Wolf and the Imp poisoned my son. Your _king_. Take them! **TAKE THEM! TAKE THEM**!” screamed Cersei. Sansa shivered, feeling rooted to her spot, unable to move. The Queen’s scream was the kind of scream that made Sansa’s blood run cold. It pierced the brain and ignited some primeval pathway. It made the hair on the back of Sansa’s neck strand straight up on end. It was the loudest, most piercing scream she had ever heard in her entire life. Cersei’s anguished scream sounded like one of wild panic.

A scream of disbelief, hysteria, and grief, bordering on panicked terror. Adrenaline surged through her veins, fight, or flight, stand, or run, to be a hero or a coward. Sansa glanced down toward Tyrion, whose fingers curled around the golden handle of his dagger he still held in his hand, and their decision was made.

If she was to die like this, then…at least she could die with honor, trying to protect her husband. She could live with such a death if it meant Lord Tyrion would be safe. Sansa swallowed nervously as her hands trembled and her eyes watered as she heard the unmistakable pounding footfalls of soldiers coming for them. Though they were not members of the King’s Guard as she had been expecting, and Sansa’s face paled as she recognized the sigil on their cloaks.

These men were not soldiers of King’s Landing, no. These men were…

They were Bolton’s. _Ramsay_. Sansa felt her insides curdle and Tyrion shouting something, and she felt her lips part open slightly to scream at the crowd, protest that they were innocent and not to do this, but had no time to react or make a run for it as one of the men balled his strong hand into a fist over the hilt of his sword and brought the weapon’s hilt bluntly and violently down on the right, already bruised side of Sansa’s face. Pain erupted from the point of impact. Sansa’s eyesight blurred, but not because tears were welling up, though they were. Her only thoughts were of her lord husband. What these men would do to him. Cersei would undoubtedly blame the death of her son on Lord Tyrion.

Everything became fuzzy, and the soldier’s voices and Tyrion’s shouts intermingled with Queen Regent Cersei’s screams sounded muffled and distorted, as though they were underwater, and then Sansa saw nothing at all and heard nothing at all except for a strange horrible, unceasing ringing in her eardrums.

Her consciousness was floating through an empty space filled with a thick, horrible static. Throughout the inky space of blackness as her mind dove for that darkness, and the temporary sanctuary of sweet, sweet relief where she felt no pain, her heartbeats pounded loudly, echoing in her ears, alongside fading pleas, pitiful whimpers for help. Sansa could have sworn she called out Tyrion’s name a couple of times before she felt her head loll back against the crook of an elbow.

Sansa blinked, trying to fight the waves of darkness, and felt whoever was carrying her press the side of her face into his strong shoulder, his other arm wrapping freely about her waist, carrying her bridal style to the gods knew where. “Ngh… _you_ ….” she breathed, her voice escaping her as a hoarse croak escaped her lips as the face of Ramsay Bolton swam in the front of her vision.

She weakly raised a hand and shoved him, hard, she was sure, she was sure, to get him to relinquish his grip on her, but her efforts seemed for naught as Ramsay clung onto her, unflinching, unmoved, and unpanicked. Impassive. Cold. Her breathing became laced with panic and coming to her in short spurts. _No. Please, no. Not this…_

Sansa struggled to speak, her tongue feeling thick, and when she attempted to say something—anything—to plead with him to let her go, she couldn’t. It was like a gag on her mouth. Ramsay put a finger to her lips.

“Shh.” His voice was flat and emotionless.

Sansa shivered and would have screamed, but she felt something cold and hard strike at the back of her skull and the feeling in her body slowly drained away until all was black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sweet, sweet relief to have the bastard Joffrey dead :D


	16. Sansa-Tyrion

** Sansa-Tyrion **

The fear coursed through his veins, but never quite made it to his facial muscles or his skin. Tyrion’s complexion remained ashen; his eyes steady as his fingers curled into a fist around the iron grilles of his cage in the Red Keep’s dungeons. He crinkled his nose in disgust and made a mental note to ask someone if he survived this about overseeing renovations to ensure more humane conditions for their prisoners.

Surrounded by walls of hard stone, there was nothing else to do but stare at them. To look at the cracks in the dungeon that had been gouged by other prisoners—anything to pass the time, slowly going mad—he theorized absurd meanings from the wall’s blank staring. All he could do was sit slumped against the cold wall of this wretched little cage, though it felt more like this strange pit of despair had become his new world. Tyrion was well and truly trapped with no way out of this. The only sole comfort was that, for reasons that were unfamiliar to him, the Bolton men had allowed Sansa to remain trapped within the confines of the dungeon cell with him, and he felt a horrible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach at that thought, knowing full well that his lord father and his sister had their reasons.

Bolton had hit her well, possibly in the exact same spot she had hit her head when she’d hit the floor in their bedchambers but a few days earlier. Her head was resting in his lap and she mumbled to herself in a state of drowsy semi-consciousness. Her eyelids fluttered open and she had an interesting gleam in her eyes that Tyrion was not at all sure what to make of.

“Sheep shift.” Was her first two words to her lord husband. Tyrion emanated a tense exhale and cocked his head to the side, his fingers running through her auburn hair, feeling like he was failing to conceal his horror when his fingers came away sticky, and he quickly realized it was congealed blood.

“Hmm?” he murmured, glancing up, his hold tightening around Sansa’s waist, though he made no move to stand. Not that they could walk around.

The prison cell was little more than a slab of stone. Just enough room to pace restlessly and stare out the window and at the wall, though given the pair of them lacked the strength to walk around much less stand up, for the time being, they stayed put. Sansa blinked and blearily opened her eyes in a haze.

“Ah, gods! It hurts…” she groaned, wincing, and gingerly rubbing the back of her head. “He needs to—he needs to pay for hitting me. For sneaking into our room. You asked me once how you could help me as my lord husband. Well. I will not starve, but we can’t let Bolton get away with this. He needs to be punished. We could—we should sheep shift Bolton’s bed, husband. If I—if I do it…he’ll never suspect it and he won’t see it coming,” she groaned weakly, forcing a smile on her face, though every muscle ached and screamed for relief. Sansa lifted her head and shifted so that she rested behind Tyrion and wrapped her arms around his middle and rested her chin on top of his shoulder.

She did not know how long the two of them sat in an uneasy silence. She cringed. She had hoped that her quip would entice her lord husband to laugh, but it had not. She swallowed and the tension in the air was so brittle.

Sansa thought she would break if she did not speak up and get Tyrion to confide in her and speak to her of his troubles, whatever it was that was ailing him and seeming to cause so much internal anguish, the war raging within the confines of his mind. She could see how troubled he was. The moment King Joffrey had dared to lay a hand against her and insult Lord Tyrion and her honor, that had been the breaking of Sansa’s patience, and she liked to consider herself an incredibly patient woman would could tolerate much, but the abuse of her family was something that she could not and would not condone again.

Tyrion’s head whiplashed so sharply upwards that Sansa had to move her head back to avoid connecting with it. She blinked, not anticipating such a harsh reaction or the look in his eyes.

He looked, perhaps for the first time since she had ever known him, truly frightening, and when he lifted his chin to look his wife in the eyes, there was a glacier coldness that did not belong in his orbs, an unfamiliar hardness that she had grown more accustomed to seeing in men like Bolton and Lord Tywin and to a lesser extent, she supposed, Cersei, but not him. He almost gave himself whiplash, he moved so fast and reluctantly, Sansa scooted further to the corner to give her husband some more space.

“Sansa…” Her name escaped his lips as a low growl. “You think this is funny. It is not. How can you be so…so _calm_ about this? Here we sit accused of murdering that vicious little bastard king and like to be executed on the morning, or worse. Sold to the Boltons. At least you will be. They’ll kill me. And you laugh? _Why_?”

He did not shout, but he seemed so shocked, and there was pain and anger laced throughout his voice, as though he were truly seeing Sansa Stark in the light for what she was. The last Stark of Winterfell, and he was merely the Imp.

Sansa lifted her chin and regarded her husband and let out a tired sigh. She scooted closer and knelt on her knees, not caring, or minding the dirt and grit that dug into her shins through her gown’s now ruined material. “I will not let them harm you. If I am to…return home,” she began hesitantly, biting her lip, “then you are coming with me, husband. For we are a team now, you and I.”

The two of them stared at each other, in an odd way, as if it were a silent argument. Their glances battled each other, until tears arose, and both found themselves silently crying. “Why did you do it?” Tyrion gasped, stifling a little hiccup with the back of his hand, tears rolling down with the same quietness. He swallowed hard and fought in vain to fight down the slick, salty liquid. Tyrion sighed, wiping his own tears, before rising from the filthy cobblestoned floor, a horrible assault on their senses that reeked of blood and shit and piss and wandered towards the prison barred hole in the wall with a curious slowness.

His hand was curled around his stomach and he staggered in mental and physical pain. Sansa felt an urge to do something, to comfort him, but also herself. It was admittedly her fault that they were now in this mess together. Had she not lost her temper and reacted in such a poor manner, perhaps they would not be here, though she doubted that was the case. The Queen Regent would have found some other pitiful excuse to lock her brother away.

In a moment, she pressed her lips against his, felt his body loosen and arms touch her shoulders. She allowed a light giggle to escape her lips beneath the salty tears.

“It’s payback, husband,” she whispered, reaching up a hand to caress his cheek and rake her fingers through his hair. She furrowed her brows in a frown as she ghosted the pads of her fingers down his jawline. “You need to shave, husband. I like my men clean.” She scrunched her nose and pulled a face. “I’ve never been fond of beards or even stubble. And you have such a handsome face. Maybe if the guard comes back, I can ask him for a knife,” she added, almost as an afterthought. Taking a deep breath to calm her nerves, she closed her eyes and tried again. "And you asked of me why I did it. Because you are my _husband_ , Tyrion," she insisted, trying to make him see her side of the situation. “Don’t you tire of the way this world treats you?”

"But…" His voice was pained and staggered as he looked upon her.

"Because," she continued, raising her voice an octave higher so he could hear her. She could tell he was growing incredibly upset and angry. The laughter and kindness had evaporated from his eyes. His customary warmth gone faster than summer rain in the heat of August. Indeed, even his focus was somewhere at a spot on the wall behind her, as if Sansa had become invisible to him or he could not bear to see her at all.

She had crossed some invisible line, offended his sensibilities by not coming to him when the King was threatening her. Sansa had seen him do this to mostly Cersei whenever the older woman was greatly annoying him and making him angry, but she'd thought their growing bond immune to this behavior.

Now, her blood drained and heart hammered erratically inside her chest, pounding. She was never afraid of his anger when it came as fire, for that burnt hot and fast, but she was deathly afraid of his ice, for it coated him like a protective sort of permafrost. This sort of behavior, a shield if you will, had saved him from the torments of his youth, but now that same method could isolate him from his family, from his friends.

And even…from _her_. It was pointless to try to reach him now, her well-meant words would bounce off him as good as hard rain. But she would still have to see him, thaw his anger, so it was up to her to return the loving spark to his eyes. Still, she tried again, and she would continue to try to reach Tyrion.

"I meant what I said to you earlier. There is no one I trust more than you. And I have never had a man like you before in my life, Tyrion. I mean it."

"I do not deserve your friendship," he stated coldly, turning his head away from her. "Nor do I deserve your trust. I have done nothing but cause you hardship and strife. I found you passed out in the nave, with two of your fingers broken. Someone is setting you up to be sold off to the Boltons tonight, and they thought you needed to be taught some kind of lesson. I don't know who it is that could have done this to you, Sansa, but…your life would be much better off…w…"

 _Without me_ , his mind finished, but he could not speak the words.

"I think you should leave if the opportunity presents itself," he answered coldly when he'd finally found his voice again. As he turned back to face Sansa, the look on her face was too much. She looked as though he slapped her. "I can’t have you here anymore. It hurts too much, what I’m doing to you, Sansa. Being around me is too dangerous, and I will not—I _cannot_ —have your life in danger, Sansa. I can have Bronn or my brother Jaimie find you a way out."

"Where would I stay? I can't go to the inns! I have no money! The people of King’s Landing know who I am. They know my face." she demanded hotly.

"All you have to do is follow Ser Bronn, who is waiting outside our cell for you. I have made arrangements to ensure your safety. I will not allow you to give your life for mine, Sansa. He would escort you to a ship waiting in the harbor. Just get on it and go. Get as far away from here as you can and live your life," he said airily, turning away from her. He did not want her to see him like this, so upset.

Anger rose within her, but she stomped it down, refusing to let him see it. Why did he place the blame on himself? Why did he feel like he was the one responsible? What had happened, it was her fault. She had insisted to stay and had made matters worse by refusing to tell him the truth about Sarousch and what he was planning.

Unable to stop herself, she felt herself stomp her foot, a moment of frustration, and turned to firmly grip both of his shoulders and forced him to meet her gaze. "Don't you dare!" she snarled angrily. "Don't you think for one _second_ , one _minute_ , that this was your fault! The blame is with _me_! I should have come to you with this, I should have…not lost my temper with Joffrey earlier.”

Tyrion's eyes widened at her seriousness and agitation. He had rarely seen her like this. "Sansa," he murmured softly, surprised at her insistence.

" _No_ , Tyrion!" she interrupted, violently shaking her head and staring at the floor beneath her bare feet, which were freezing and she desperately wished she had a pair of slippers, but quickly shoved that thought aside, as it was not important in the moment, but Tyrion was. " _I_ am the one who has not been entirely truthful with you, about why I’m here…you're right in that someone _did_ do this to me," she began cautiously, glancing down at her bandaged hand and flinching. She had to tell him the truth. “The—the truth is, I…I’m not who you think I am. I...care for you. A great deal, Tyrion. More than I had previously allowed myself to believe."

Tyrion turned away sharply, that one lock of hair hanging in front of his face, shielding her from his view.

When he spoke, the disappointment and hurt in his soft tenor-like voice was almost too much for Sansa to bear. “Sansa…tell me the truth. Why…why did you kiss me?”

Sansa looked startled that he would ask such a question.

“I…” She desperately wanted to tell him the truth, that she cared for him greatly, maybe…maybe even _loved_ him. But that small twinge of caution that she harbored still towards Ramsay Bolton and Cersei and anyone else who did not have her best interests at heart told her not to. And for that, Tyrion had every right to be incredibly angry with her. She deserved whatever he was about to say to her.

"Sansa." His tenor-like voice was gentle, yet there was a firmness there that told her to look up. But she couldn't. After all she had done to him, she didn't deserve to look upon him ever again. How could she after it?

"Sansa, I…" His voice trailed off as he lifted his hand to touch her shoulder, but Sansa quickly stepped away, refusing to meet his gaze.

"So…you wish me to leave you here alone to be executed because you feel as though you deserve nothing less, even though you are innocent," she began slowly, her voice present again, but the woman refused to look at him. "Because I had no right to get so close to you. I overstepped the boundaries. Because you do not think yourself worthy of my affections, given how you look. But don't you know there's more to love than just physical attraction?"

Tyrion's eyes widened as he heard the resignation in her voice. She started nodding her head, almost erratically so, and he recognized, perhaps a second too late, just what it was that he had done. He had ostracized this young girl and made Sansa Stark just like him. An outcast, another person to be reviled and hated in Westeros. What had he done to her? He had ruined her, and any prospects she might have had for a good life here. What had happened to her tonight, someone had broken her fingers and hit her over her head at King Joffrey's wedding following the wretched little bastard's murder. Because of _him_. He was dangerous to her.

"No," he said without thinking. "No, Sansa, that is simply the reality that you and I live in, but it's—" But he did not get a chance to finish speaking.

"No. I understand," Sansa retorted, lifting her eyes at last and giving him a look of someone who had just woken up, realizing they had been in a dream. "I understand completely what it is that you wish of me. I'll go now."

"Sansa, no, that's not what I—"

But she was walking away from him. "If this is what you wish, then who am I to argue?" she continued flatly, still averting her gaze. "This is, after all, _your_ prison cell, not mine. My apologies. They are accusing you, after all. Not I. " She gave a curt little curtsy and abruptly turned away, preparing to leave.

Before she could take so much as a few steps, however, Tyrion grabbed her by the shoulders roughly, not wishing to have to resort to such drastic lengths, but she was giving him very little choice in this regard. As he turned her towards him, he noticed the sheen of glistening tears welling in her blue eyes. "Sansa, you are misunderstanding me. I care for you, more than you can…possibly imagine," he said, his voice soft, desperate. Desperation. _Truly_?

He had never heard anything like that come out of his mouth before. "But as you have just said, this cannot continue," said Sansa, looking up at him with her brows furrowed. She was much calmer now, which was strange. "It is unacceptable. I— _I_ am no longer acceptable, with you. I can see that now. I overstepped a line when I dared to get close to you. You are afraid to love back, because you're afraid your heart will be broken in the process, but guess what, Tyrion? That is love, sometimes it hurts, sometimes it's painful and…and…"

" **NO** , Sansa!" he roared, finally losing the last vestiges of his patience. Tyrion, despite knowing that he really ought not to, took hold of her cheek, tilting it upward and forced her to look at him. Her skin was soft, just as he knew it to be, and this only made his heart ache and things much worse for it. "You are _better_ , have you not been listening to a single word I've said?" he demanded incredulously anyways, but knowing it was unlikely that she would ever understand him.

How could she? She was born perfect, and he like _this_. "You can do better than me, and you should," he snapped, feeling the fire-seeds of jealousy well deep within the pits of his stomach at the thought of envisioning this creature before him with another man, one taller and better-looking than he was, though it was what Sansa Stark deserved. He knew this.

"I have," she snapped, her blue eyes flashing angrily. "Let go of me!"

He ignored this last request. "You deserve better, which is will I will—"

"No, you won't!" Sansa shouted. "You don't want me here anymore!" Words flew from her mouth that she never thought she'd even think, let alone say out loud, and it was on the person she perhaps cared for the most. She knew instantly from the look in his eyes that they'd hit their mark. 

In that instant, their marriage shattered into glassy shards. Nothing would ever be the same again, and they both knew this. They were both panting, Tyrion still cupping her cheek.

Sansa's voice was cold, hollow, and he wondered why she was as upset as she was. He figured maybe it was because she had grown used to her life in the Red Keep, and the people here, that she had no home, a place she could call that anymore. Maybe she did not trust him, did not think that he would simply support her without wishing anything of her in return. Tyrion knew she had her morals, much stronger than his. But still, he needed her to understand why. But this was also perhaps the last time he could ever look upon her beautiful face ever again.

Never again, at least, not in this manner. Tyrion could not stop himself from letting his thumb drift across her cheek, wishing he could make her tears disappear. "Your future is _not_ here. You as good as said it yourself, you do not belong in this place forever," he said stiffly, and then, realizing he sounded too harsh, softened his tone, once they had recovered somewhat. "I will help you, Sansa. I—I don't know how that is, but I promise to repay you for all the good that you have done for me, to apologize for the hardships you have suffered while living here. I care about your future, just as much as you do, and… if you stay here, with me, you will be labelled. I'm a monster, nothing more, nothing more. My father was _right_ ," he growled darkly. "I'll never be anything but a monster, and I was foolish to think otherwise. "I cannot be your husband."

 _There's nothing for you here_ , is what he wanted to say, but couldn't speak. The tears betrayed them both, falling from her blue eyes and landing on the back of his hand. What was the secret behind them?

Tyrion shook his head as he thought on this. He voiced his own thoughts as they came to him.

"Why would you even want to stay here?" he said, smiling at Sansa as she looked sharply away, biting her bottom lip hard enough to cause it to bleed if she weren't careful. "What possible reason could you have, when the whole world is waiting for you out there?" Here, he gestured to the balcony. "I know it is a dangerous one, one not particularly kind to women, I know that, but I believe there is something better waiting for you out there despite this." Tyrion had expected her to reply immediately, but he saw her wince, as if Sansa were only just coming to terms with something deep within herself.

She almost looked guilty, though God only knew why. When she finally rose to confront him, Lord Tyrion saw a clarity in her haunting eyes, as well as confusion buried there. Her gaze trailed across his face, and he flinched as it finally rested on his eyes, just as he had looked at her many times over. It was as if she no longer cared that he knew that she was looking at him.

He had thought of it. Of course, he joked to himself, knew she felt something, but… if it was to the degree he now saw clearly in her eyes, then something had only just now become apparent to her in that moment, like she had woken up from a long sleep or some horrible witch's curse at last

. "When you found me down in our bedroom a—and saved me from Bolton, I…" Sansa began, but her voice quickly faded as Tyrion let go of her cheek, letting his hand fall to his side. "I didn't know. I hadn't thought that I could…that I could…" she was struggling badly. It was Tyrion's turn to look incredulous now, as he stepped away. Sansa looked scared, scared of his reaction, but she took a step forward. "I do not want to deny how I feel anymore," she whispered.

Her voice was resilient, but also on the brink. Tyrion could hardly believe that he had actually placed her there. Placed her there because of own monstrous stupidity. Why couldn't he have just left her be, left her alone, admired her from afar! Tyrion shook his head, turning away from Sansa. His voice was hard as he looked down at his boots, wishing he could turn back time.

"You only feel this way because you are confused," he said coldly. He dared not look back, for if he had, he would have seen her white face. Sansa was far too pale, her knuckles white with suppressed rage, her shoulders shaking from the effort to restrain herself from lashing out.

"How _dare_ you speak to me like that? Take that back, right now! So, I am confused but you are not?" Sansa retorted, frustration rising again. "I am not some idiot peasant girl with no understanding as to her own feelings! It's clear this had nothing to do with me or my future here in Westeros with you, whether that is here in King’s Landing or in Winterfell or Casterly Rock," she snarled. "You simply don't wish to confront the fact that something is there, something is happening between us, something you cannot even begin to contemplate because of who you are, what I am. Because you were born like that, and I like _this_ ," she snarled, gesturing to herself and then to his wild tuft of curly hair and his scar. "Your dwarfism, Tyrion, is not as bad as you make them out to be. Why can you not see that you are a handsome man with a beautiful smile, and you've caught my attention? Are you blind?" When he did not answer, she scoffed and rolled her eyes. "No, not blind. Just _stupid_. Young, blind, and so, so _stupid_. You doubt my convictions, what I want. I have thought about this for some time, a-and what I want...is _you_."

This was what she thought of him, really thought of him. Tyrion closed his eyes, letting a ragged breath escape from his mouth, exposing his feelings to Sansa at long last. Tyrion heard her timid footsteps as she approached him from behind, and he could feel the heat radiating off her body, reaching out to him, trying again.

Sansa was looking at him as though she had just had some sort of epiphany, for her blue eyes were growing wide and round with shock as she realized something. "I see it now. You're ashamed," she said, her voice as hard now as his. "You are ashamed of me. That is what this is, though you don't wish to admit this as the truth." Tyrion felt his eyes fly open and he pulled himself towards her and cleared his throat before turning to look at Sansa again.

He took a moment to collect his thoughts before replying to her one-time true statement. It was true. Though she had one crucial part wrong.

He was not ashamed of her, but of _himself_. He had foolishly allowed this to happen, to think that for an instant, that he might have…that he could have had a future with this beautiful young woman.

But Father, in the end, had been right. There was no denying what he was. He was a monster, and he would always be one, and he could not—would not—subject Sansa to that same fate, which is what she would become if she stayed with him. The people of King’s Landing would label her a freak, an outcast, a witch for daring to live with this monster.

He could not allow this. "You're wrong, Sansa," he said quietly, as he felt himself smile sadly, though he did not turn to look at her. "The creature you met all those years ago back in Winterfell, the one who only saw an angelic girl in front of him, he might have thought that, once. But I'm not doing this to you because of what I think. I don't even blame you for thinking such thoughts of me."

"Why?" she asked, and the heartbreak in her voice was entirely too much.

"Sansa, if you stay here with me, then I…" Tyrion let his sentence drop, lifting his gloved hand again as he winced and flexed his fingers, touching her face again, despite the anger displayed here, and he was surprised in that she did not turn away from him like he expected her to do. He took a chance and stepped forward so he hoped she would understand, see what he was sure was displayed so clearly on his face now. "I know what will happen if you stay," Tyrion whispered as he grimaced, hating how desperate his voice sounded. "You and I both know you could never truly…I could never be with you as a…"

 _Lover and a husband_ , his conscience finished. By God, he couldn't say it.

It did not need saying, yet Sansa's eyes lifted abruptly, brightly shining with shock. Clearly, she had not expected him to think that far. But he had.

Oh, gods, he had. A million times over, but it couldn't be. Taking hold of her face now with both hands, Tyrion took the last few moments he had in her company to try and memorize every little detail of her face, the slight of her mouth, that little wisp of red hair which never failed to fall on her forehead. If ever there was a time where he wanted to kiss her, this was it.

He almost laughed, a bitter, cold laugh at himself. As if he had not wanted to this entire time, during their entire friendship and acquaintance.

"I will not do that to you," Tyrion continued. "You deserve so much better. You deserve more than to be stuck here, and that is what will happen if you stay. I am disgraced, nothing more than a monster. I am no man. I will not drag you through the mud as well, my friend. I won't do it, Sansa. I won't." _Even if you hate me for it_ , he thought, though he dared not speak of it.

Sansa looked as if she wanted to protest, but then she closed her mouth, realizing, Tyrion hoped, just as he had to, that he was right in this regard, as much as he did not want to be. Tyrion had to fight very hard to relinquish his grip of her, to let go of this otherworldly creature, but he did. He let his hands slip from her cheeks, landing helplessly at his sides. There was a horrible smothering sense of inevitability in the air, the only conclusion possible, really, and Tyrion took a deep breath, readying himself to turn away. But then Sansa spoke, shattering the silence.

"It is clear to me that you do not understand, and I don't know if you ever will, Tyrion." Her tone was clipped and hard, and her voice had seemed to come out of nowhere, and when Tyrion lifted his head to look up at her, he saw that her tears were now gone, and she looked almost like she had done when she'd entered into his life, her expression one of misery and anger.

"Tell me what it is I don't understand then," he snapped flatly.

"You do not understand at all. It's clear. My feelings on the matter hold no bearing to you. You have made up your mind, Tyrion, and I cannot deter you from your decision. Not only do you not understand me, but you don't understand yourself." Her words were strange, they sounded foreign to him, and she was talking now from some other place, some place where he could not find her. "You are wrong, Tyrion, when it comes to what you think is of value in this life. It is time that you started seeing yourself as a man. You are no monster, your father and sister are wrong, whatever they said to you when you were growing up, they were wrong," Sansa spoke up quietly. "I deserve to decide my own fate, as you have said throughout this conversation. You wish me to leave you alone, then. You do not respect me, not truly. I see it now."

He did not see Sansa leave with Ser Bronn and Lord Baelish. He turned away once she said her piece. It was all he would have of her. Her words. But just before the barred door to the prison’s entryway closed, Tyrion heard her speak to him again. It was her final closing statement, which left him unable to find any sort of closure, only leaving him with further torment and anguish in his weak heart.

"You are the kindest man I have met in all my life. You are the best of the entire Lannister family, and perhaps you and I could have continued that trend with any children we might have one day. I know that in this moment you are simply reacting out of anger, but…I know that you will come to your senses, and when you are ready to come home to me, to find me again…I will be there," she said, though there was no warmth left in her voice. "I do not wish to see you hurt like everyone else I have known. Would you allow me to, I can help protect you, to be a good wife to you, milord, and maybe…"

Here Sansa hesitated and bit her lip, fighting back her urge to break down and blinking back briny tears. "Maybe I could have loved you, Tyrion, if you would have allowed it, but I can see now that you do not want that. You wish me to leave you, so I will go, though that is not what I want for myself, my love, but if it is what you wish, then so be it. Don't try to help me. You owe me nothing." It had taken him a good minute or two to realize what she had said, for she had spoken so softly and without any kind of feeling in her voice at all.

As he blinked, her words finally registering, he glanced up in the doorway of the cell to find his sister lingering in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest and a dangerous smirk on her face. “Did I not tell you this was the way?”

“Where is she?” Tyrion shouted, not giving a damn what Cersei thought.

“Who?” Cersei mocked, feigning innocence, a twisted smile on her face, and the bitch looked like she was thoroughly enjoying this.

“ **SANSA**!” he yelled, silently fuming as he turned away from this bitch. He ground his teeth in anger as her sister in her arrogant triumph, Cersei smirked.

Just a small pouting of the lips. A narrowing of her eyes and a tilting of the head, cocking it to the side as a dog would do whenever it found something curious. It was so subtle. It was even more infuriating for Tyrion, who caught a glimpse after making the foolish mistake of engaging his sister in conversation.

He clenched his teeth and rooted his jaw in anger as he glanced out the window, firmly believing that Sansa Stark would now never return to him.

He had foolishly made sure of that by losing his temper towards her. Tonight had spelled the end of everything. This was simply how it was meant to go, and that was that, then. Her beautiful features invaded his mind as he sat against the wall across from Cersei, ignoring her for now, but unlike many times before, Tyrion didn't fight it this time, letting her tease as she smiled, but this time, it was a heartbroken smile. Sansa did not say it in so many words.

She thought he didn't know. Of course, he knew, he could see it in her eyes. He would be damned if he did not at least try to help her financially in some small way, after everything...She had pawned the last of her rings to buy him bread, after all, when the guards on duty would not bring them food, she had stuck her right hand through the door and shrugged out of a ruby ring and given it to the guard with the weakest eyes, or she said to him when he asked her why she had done it. Easiest and the most susceptible to allow himself to be bribed, she said when the guard had gone.

He would get his way, at least concerning that. He wouldn't take her refusal for an answer. All this time, he'd been wondering how he felt about her, but he had not stopped to seriously consider the notion that… _That_.

Tyrion shook his head violently to rid himself of these unhelpful thoughts. Maybe Sansa had thought she cared for him. But she only knew him as he was mostly after everything that had happened. If she knew what he was truly like, back before she came to the cathedral, then…then…

She could not love that monster, and yes, he had discovered he wasn't all he thought he was, but he was still very much that creature in the shadows. Looking back at his past conduct, he could see no reason for why she would care about a dolt like him. Regardless, it didn't matter anymore. The young woman deserved better than him, even if she didn't know it yet, she would soon, of this Tyrion was certain. It was simply another reason to toss on the already ominous mountain of reasons for why she was better off.

By severing all acquaintance with him, she could at least have some semblance of a normal life, and settle down with a man who was handsome, one who could provide for her, give her a normal life in the sunlight she craved. Someone who was not him, for what could a monster like him offer?

There had been hope for him before. Just a tiny flicker against the wind. And now, there was nothing left. In that moment she had a choice of kindness or cruelty; it took no time at all for Sansa Stark to decide. She had seen that dying ember and brought the winds to a cold howl. How was her thinking so different from Tyrion's own, so foreign? How was it that she saw the suffering and choose to make it all the worse? He didn't know. But it did not matter, because they could never truly be together in that way.

Not in the way that he wanted.

Tyrion blinked as he realized his sister was speaking to him.

“How I prayed this day would come,” Cersei snarled, no warmth in her eyes as she headed towards the door, preparing to leave. “That you would love someone. I prayed that you loved her so much, when you close her eyes you see only her face. I wanted that for you. I wanted you to know what it’s like to love someone, to _truly_ love someone, before I _took_ her from you, as I did with _her_. I see it now. It was not the whore that spelled and bewitched you after all.”

Tyrion’s head whiplashed sharply upwards and regarded his sister, the realization of his sister’s words hitting him as though he had been doused in ice water. “ _What_ did you say? What have you done with Sansa? _Where is she_?”

Cersei paused in the doorway, her back still facing her brother. When she turned to regard her brother, Tyrion swallowed hard past the lump in his throat. “She is no longer a concern to our family. I have…made arrangements with Lord Roose Bolton to wed her to his bastard son, Ramsay, and you…”

She breathed and she took a half step forward and regarded her brother with an icy stare. “You’re going along as well, dear sweet brother,” she growled through gritted teeth. “You’re going to be the bastard’s new little _pet_. His current is running short on appendages to cut off. I wanted to have you executed, but Father talked me out of all those options. We cannot send you to the Wall, so this is the next best alternative,” she snapped. “I know what life should be like and I understand that many things and creatures are inferior to me. In my position, brother, it is simply mercy. I know if I don’t save your precious little wife with the wonders of death, then she will die in the horror of life.”

Tyrion did not see Cersei leave. He clenched his eyes shut and turned away, balling his hand into a fist, and striking out at the cobblestone wall in anger, feeling a fiery pain pulsate and shoot up the entire right side of his wretched little body. What in the seven fucking hells had he done?

This was all his fault. Unable to think of anything else but what he had done to his wife who now knew to be hopelessly in love with, he slumped against the wall and kept his eyes shut, anything to keep the memory of her sweet face drenched in his memory. He loved Sansa Stark more than himself.

And he was killing her.


	17. Ramsay-Sansa

**Ramsay**

Winterfell’s walls were the strongest thing for miles around, yet if you were to look carefully, you would notice the stones. It was built of stones of varying sizes and shapes, each one unique. From a distance, the fortress was a uniform gray, from up close it was a humble mosaic of varying rocks, each one of them nobody would think of if they were left by the road path. But together….

Together they were a castle, the crown of the landscape and protector, once of the ancient Stark family, and now the castle acted as the protector of the Bolton family. Inside this castle, inside the library, dust collected everywhere as far as the eye could see. Spider webs wove loosely around the books, dirtied shelves, and stands. The stone floor beneath the pair of brothers’ boots was littered with dirt, glass, books, and torn paper. The crevices in the wall allowed small amounts of light to filter inside along with thin ropes of ivy tendrils.

Dust floated lazily in the air causing the pair of twin brothers a difficult time breathing, and every step put more if into the air. All that was heard were the faint chirps of birds outside, the scurrying feet of invisible rodents lurking within the walls, and the rustling of papers that caught the cold winter drift that wafted in through the hallway open windows of the castle’s decrepit library.

The fireplace was Ramsay Bolton’s tiny sun for the evening, casting long shadows over the bearskin rug. The flames curled and swayed, flicking this way and that, crackling and popping as they burned the dry wood.

It was good to feel its warmth, even if it was only in one direction.

His blue eyes darkened to an almost cerulean hue, and what little pinkness and warmth had been in his face fled. Ramsay stifled a groan as the sound of the door’s to the library burst open, shattering the otherwise deafening silence in the library that was in dire need of a good cleaning, though they lacked the manpower. They had but only a small handful of maids, and not even all the girls could handle this, for it was too monumental a task for just the dozen or so maids their head of household employed.

“Ramsay!” came the harsh, grating voice of his father’s voice, though coming from the Warden, it sounded more like an animalistic bark than a harsh command to his bastard son. Ramsay emanated a tense exhale and turned around to meet the Warden’s piercing gray eyes, which rivaled that of a perfectly polished suit of armor.

Once, the man’s emotions were as variable as the rest of the Bolton family, sometimes the man was egregious, other times moody and drunk out of his wits. Now, he was stuck in his negative range and always extreme. At least, to Ramsay, he was. Ramsay straightened his posture, as he dipped his head in unison in acknowledgement of the Warden.

“Father,” came Ramsay’s response in a curt and clipped tone. Once, Roose Bolton’s face had been soft with the beginnings of laughter lines, not creased in that angry way that had become his only face to those here in the castle, or the outside world, but no longer. He had fallen ill a few years prior, though no one would say what for.

But when he returned to his family after his period of healing, his personality was altered. Rigid and hard, Ramsay supposed. One by one, his lord father’s friends once upon a time in his life had all dropped out of the Warden’s life, worn down by his newfound aggression and negativity, and the man slowly cut out his family. All except for his bastard son, of which he still had a need for. To wed the Stark girl and sire an heir.

Ramsay swallowed back the lump forming in his throat, and his mouth all of a sudden felt quite dry. He licked his lips in an effort to moisten them, though what little good it did, as he lifted his chin and jutted it out slightly to meet the Warden’s listless gaze as his father, for reasons unknown, looked to be in a mood.

 _But when isn’t he?_ Ramsay thought, feeling minor agitation and annoyed by his father’s presence. Roose Bolton’s eyes, well, for a lack of a better word, were gray. You could use that one word description to describe them, but you wouldn’t do him justice. Every single time and without fail, Ramsay felt struck by his father’s eyes. The coldness and ice that dwelled within. For every detail in the older man’s irises were so clear, so concise.

For all his lack of words, Lord Roose Bolton was like a strange work of art that nobody could understand, leaving everyone who stared into his eyes quite confused, and uncomprehending, hating that the man had perfected over the years of being in his lord father’s company, a look of ‘perfect impassiveness,’ that Ramsay had also managed to perfect, as well.

His father’s eyes were the gray of a flash of the metal of a sword hitting the bright rays of a winter sun. It was like a hatch had opened into Roose Bolton’s eyes and the color had spewed out, leaving the Warden’s eyes to look like the dazzling and breath-taking snow, or the sparkling diamond, but as Ramsay believed, no words were apt enough to describe his father’s eyes, those which rivaled a perfectly polished set of armor, like the ones they had displayed in the hallways.

Ramsay still believed there would never be a word appropriate enough to describe Roose Bolton’s eyes, for how could you do justice to an existing masterpiece?

Ramsay stared deep into his father’s eyes, his gaze unwavering and unabashed, determined not to look away first. He was certain that Father knew his bastard son was trying to hide his true feelings on this new development, but still, Ramsay was determined to fool his uncle. The young lord contorted his lips into an awkward little half-smile, but his cheeks were not so compromising. He could feel their reluctance to be molded falsely.

When Roose Bolton finally averted his gaze and turned towards the fire lit in the large hearth, his smile fell lifeless, allowing his face to return to its usual cold, hard gawk, like always. The Warden of Winterfell and in charge of the familial assets until his son married and sired an heir of his own, fixed his bastard son with his usual icy stare, which was devoid of any warmth or any love.

“My son,” he announced, the beginnings of a wry little half-smirk tugging at the edges of his mouth, turning his lips upward into a twisted smirk that Ramsay thought suited him ill. “Your lovely little bride awaits you. You will join me in the courtyard to greet her.” Ramsay's lips twitched into a slightly mischievous grin as the Warden began to wildly hack and cough, spluttering as he reached for his pocket handkerchief with which to cover his mouth. “By the gods!” he barked angrily, waving to his son with a curt motion of his arm, “get one of the girls in here to clean this place up. It’s filthy. How in the seven hells do you work in here!”

Ramsay smirked and did not bother to hide it. That sounded like a job for Myranda.

“Yes, Father,” he spoke up, quietly and obediently, and moved down the corridor to join his lord father in the courtyard to meet his beloved bride, his precious prize. The She-Wolf. Ramsay Bolton, as a general rule, hid his emotions from all but his father. He figured his emotions were information he would rather not hand over to the wrong person, and so at all times, he maintained that air of a perfect impassiveness Father had taught him.

But today was different for him.

They had not had a guest—let alone a woman—in the castle in quite some time, let alone one Ramsay’s age, and the smile that cracked his pale features that had not been seen since boyhood caused Ramsay to walk a little bit faster to catch up to his relatives. He just had a good feeling about this day, about this Stark girl and how…utterly _delightful_ it was, to see her again, to know that this time, there was no way she could escape from her fate. Nothing that felt this right could possibly go wrong. It just couldn’t…

Right?

* * *

**Sansa**

In the raging blizzard in the world outside, there was no way to know which direction to go, the usual landmarks for Sansa and Lord Baelish were hidden behind the white that swirled so densely. Even her horse in front of her was little more than a crude outline of a horse mostly erased by the storm. The poor stallion was exhausted, and could no longer support her weight, so the young woman had no choice but to dismount the steed and lead the way for the beast, who whinnied and snorted in frustration.

The soft crystals she would have found so bewitching from the other side of a pane glass, found their way into her gown and cloak in every possible way. The vicious flakes packed down her neck and between the fabric of her cloak that whipped haphazardly into the brutal winds of winter, sending a chill down her back. Sansa shivered, feeling the very blood within her veins become cold, and her skin become icy, and she was certain if she were to glimpse her reflection somehow, she would see the edges of her lips were beginning to tinge blue with cold.

She and Baelish should not have come this far. Not in this wretched, miserable weather. And Tyrion… Her heart gave a painful lurch as she wished she could turn the steed around and go back. She did not know how many days they had been riding. A few. _What if they killed him? What if he’s dead already?_ She could not bear it.

Disorientation was a given, and the cold a silent killer. The young woman cried out for her horse and for Lord Baelish to turn around and go back before it was too late, but the wind carried her voice faster than she could give the command. The world around the two of them was being eradicated, and she would be with it if they could not find shelter, and fast. Sansa raised a gloved hand to shield her eyes.

She had anticipated the coldness and the sting of driven snow on her face, but not the ferocity of the wind and how the light had blinded her, despite the failing light of day as the sun slowly set over the horizon, leaving the young woman to fend for herself. It was like walking into a fresh page as the fibers were still being laid down, threatening to make her part of the scenery instead of a person in her own right.

All Sansa could do at this point was to bow her head until her chin touched her chest and keep walking, praying for a safe space, and soon. Though her feet in her brown leather boots were beginning to freeze, and her footsteps were small, sinking in past her ankles with each stride, she knew that each step took her closer to…

To what was it, exactly? To have her freedom ripped from her. Sansa furrowed her brows into a frown and scowled heavily as she thought of the arrangement that Lord Tywin had delegated with the Warden of the North, for her hand in marriage in exchange for sparing Sansa’s life and pardoning her of her supposed-part in King Joffrey Baratheon’s death.

And Sansa, for her part, had only agreed to the match with Lords Tywin and Lord Baelish on the condition that Lord Tyrion be brought to her, alive and unharmed, for she wanted to know that he was safe. Though she knew nothing of her intended in question, only that Ramsay was a monster, and she did not want this match, the young woman was led to believe such was her plight in life, that her father had laid out for her at her feet. _“This is the only way, Sansa.”_ His last words to her before he had sent her away still rang in her ears, refusing to part from her thoughts. “ _You will be safe in Winterfell, milady.”_

Sansa had vehemently protested this initial arrangement, and she scowled. As far as she was concerned, the Bolton family was of no concern of hers, for they had stolen her father’s lands and assets when this lord’s father, had invaded her home and killed her family. _Home_. Just that word alone that ruminated in her thoughts was enough to send a chill through her bones and freeze it.

Admittedly, a place she never thought she would set foot in again, and yet, her feet felt too afraid to take the next step forth. _The Stark’s castle, though now I suppose it belongs to the Bolton’s, this place is no longer my home, no matter what Lord Baelish says_ , she thought bitterly, feeling her jaw clench in anger, as she felt her grip loosen upon her horse’s bridle.

Castle walls rose out of the darkness, out of the silent charcoal curtain drawn. They were pitted and forlorn, and Sansa felt like breaking down and weeping at seeing the once proud castle like this in such a state. No longer the bastions of protection and glory that they once were, under her mother and father’s care.

Sansa bit the wall of her cheek as she reached out a shaking hand and under the pads of her fingertips, tinged blue with the cold, the stone was rougher than the calloused skin of an old man’s hands, a laborer’s, and it left the palm of her hand feeling cold. The cold drew dampness into her already frigid bones. It stretched away, disappearing into the black in every direction.

The light was barely there, like a feeling that was difficult for Sansa Stark to get a grasp on. There was a temptation to hunker down here, to just stow herself away behind a narrow window and peek into the world, appearing with the details of a finished canvas. A canvas that she would then smash into the ground into a thousand pieces with the heel of her brown leather boot.

Sansa briefly wondered as her delicately shaped brows knitted together in quandary if she could follow the edge of the godswoods, perhaps. She would not have the cover of darkness, but perhaps the lack of scent and prints for the Bolton hounds to follow, if the rumors of those hell hounds were true, would tilt the odds of escaping this wretched, now unfamiliar place in her favor just enough.

How quickly the dream of the runaway became a nightmare… Sansa glanced downward as she mutely handed the reins of her horse to an approaching guard, who raised a hand in mock self-defense upon the glowering wither the young woman shot the guard’s way, and murmured quietly through the visor of his helmet that he was merely here to escort her stallion to the stables.

The young redhead sighed and, not averting her gaze from the ground, nodded. Sansa caught sight of her reflection in a chunk of ice near the edge of her boot and blanched. She bit down on her cheek hard enough that iron and copper welled on her tongue, and Sansa Stark knew she’d practically bitten her tongue off. She was the kind of girls that women in the North she’d come from loved to hate. Sansa was an adult at eighteen, but still possessed the exuberance of youth. The brunette was not overly tall and willowy.

She strode forward and walked towards the courtyard, refusing the offered arm of a second guard that appeared, who looked offended, though chose to make no remark, for which she was internally grateful. When Sansa Stark walked, it was with the confidence of someone a decade older.

The girl was not just flawless in her bone structure, her skin was like silk over glass and she radiated an intelligent beauty from deep within. Her face was very white, the color of a moonbeam, or an ivory carving. A snowy face, very beautiful, like a snow queen’s in a fairy tale. Her hands too, were bone-white naturally, and not just from the frigid cold of the currently raging blizzard, but soft and elegant, as pale hands like hers often were. She looked like a porcelain doll—you worried that she would shatter if the young woman were to ever fall.

Even in the dark, you could see Sansa Stark, like a shining beacon of light. The white creamy tone of her skin oft reminded people of whipped milk, and her hair which cascaded in natural waves and curls to just past the edges of her collarbones was the auburn red of ember flames of a fire, rich and deep, yet with the subtle hues only time could bring. With each stride forward, the dark strands tumbled, reflecting the strengthening moonlight in waves. And her eyes.

Sansa Stark’s eyes were like the stars, the way they drew you in to explore the swirling emotion held in their depths. The black of her pupil was surrounded by a ring of jagged silver fire swallowed by sapphire blue. At one glance her eyes merely shone, but if you dared to look closer you could clearly see the sadness of heartbreak, the joy of love, the hope of the future, the pain of sorrow, and the fire of a spirit that would never give up. A fine wife she was.

 _You could not even protect Lord Tyrion and now here you are, about to be wed to the Bastard of Roose Bolton. How will you next fail this man as a wife remains for me to be seen_ , she thought bitterly, hating herself, and felt her teeth grind in anger. She would not agree to this proposal if Lord Tywin did not uphold his end of the agreement and present to her her lord husband.

Seven hells, but she hated this. Sansa continued the incessant poor habit of biting the wall of her cheek as she strode further towards the three silhouetted figures, nothing but shadows in the yard. “Spiders in the garden,” she whisper-hissed through clenched teeth, her voice low so that only she could hear.

It would not do to alert the current guard. Her eyes were the type of rich blue that was like no other. The brutality was not reserved just for King’s Landing. Sansa swallowed nervously past the lump forming in her throat as her eyes befall the man standing in the middle, easily the more imposing. The man, if anything, was fitter looking that Sansa had expected, then she had heard tell of the rumors from Baelish, her escort and lifelong family friend.

The Warden’s face told of a surprisingly lean and taut body beneath his black overcoat and his expression etched upon his lined face was quite serious but not unkind. He had that salt and pepper look to his short-cropped hair, which had begun to thin at the temples and in the middle, but against his still youthful skin at the age of fifty-five years, Sansa thought that it suited the Warden of the North. He introduced himself formally, and she chose silence as the only apt response.

Sansa felt the heat creep to her cheeks as an incredible warmth spread onto her face as she could feel the two men close to her age, currently flanking the Warden, both their eyes on her, which she actively averted the young menfolk’s gazes. Instead, she kept her gaze transfixed upon the Warden, on Roose Bolton. She swallowed nervously and dipped into a low curtsy, her eyes staring at his boots.

By the gods, but she did not want to look into those cold gray eyes! Sansa thought it rather frightening how with just a single look, without Sansa even once needing to open her mouth to make some formal quip or introductory comment, how with just that one look, the verdict was told and already, he had formed some opinion of her, having judged her from afar, based on faceless accusations and rumors of her family and past failed attempts at courtships for her. Lord Roose Bolton seemed to have been reflecting longer than usual. Sansa felt her face fall, crestfallen, as the Warden locked his cold steel eyes on hers.

She had heard awful rumors of this man, and most especially…this look of cool detachment. This look was supposedly the one that he reserved for the prisoners he was rumored to guard in the dungeons below, a hateful disdain, mocking scorn. But it was more than that.

There was a tenseness he wasn’t even trying to mask. Sansa swallowed and felt her lips part open slightly in shock as she slowly backed away, and almost tripped over the hem of her green linen gown and train of her cape. Nothing about this was making any sense to the young woman.

Not the man’s curling fists or the anger that seemed to radiate from his skin and redden it. The Warden’s eyes were a knife in Sansa’s ribs, the sharp point digging deeper. The unmoving gaze was accompanied by deliberate slow breathing, like the aging elderly man was fighting back against something causing great inner turmoil and losing. Sansa glanced wildly to the left and right for any means of escaping. None that she could see.

She barely managed to stifle her tiny gasp of surprise that escaped her lips as the Warden gingerly grasped her hand in his and brought her bone-white knuckles to his thin, slightly cracked, and chapped lips, for a kiss. Sansa froze, quite certain that her facial expression was one of utmost disgust.

The way the Warden of the North’s brilliant gray eyes squinted when the man glared at young Sansa Stark, reminded the girl of a pit viper’s slit-like pupils. She gulped nervously, smiling. A burning animosity was developing in the man’s gray eyes, and Sansa could tell that she was likely the root cause of whatever problem was ailing the man.

And then, much to Sansa’s astonishment Warden Roose Bolton took a step back, his boots making a crunching noise in the fallen snow beneath the man’s feet. He relinquished his hold upon her hand, though admittedly he held onto it much longer than Sansa would like, and to her great surprise, his thin lips stretched upwards into a smile that in the young woman’s mind looked more like a grimace, though when he spoke to the exhausted and nearly frozen woman, his voice was booming, authoritative, although not all together unkind or cruel, really.

“Welcome home, Lady Stark.”


	18. Roose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If anybody is interested in seeing my Sansa Stark cosplay, you can find it in the link below. A tech whiz friend of mine photo shopped in the winter background, and I like it so far! I think it turned out great :)
> 
> I did it not long ago before the world went to crap and COVID started cancelling all our cons, but I hope to someday bring her out again for future cons and I'd like to one day dye my hair a bit more red. It's brown with auburn/red tints in it, but I don't feel like it's quite Sansa-y enough? 
> 
> Here it is: https://i.pinimg.com/originals/26/a6/06/26a606f41c5412f3cfea498ce2d999ed.jpg

** Roose  **

The Warden of the North snorted over the rim of his goblet and regarded the strange material of beauty, that which was the last She-Wolf of Winterfell.

A strange prize and Lord Roose Bolton firmly believed his bastard son to be undeserving of Lady Sansa Stark. The matter of the girl’s current marriage to the Imp was proving to shape up to be rather problematic for the Warden, given that the girl was demanding that her husband be presented to her on the morrow, for she wished to see the Lannister dwarf truly alive and unharmed.

A request that he would grant the girl. Even now as he spoke, a team of Bolton soldiers were escorting a small company from King’s Landing at the insistence of Queen Regent Cersei Lannister, the vicious cunt, though he could admire her brevity and her wit. He furrowed his graying brows into a frown and puzzled over the Stark girl as he watched her meander through the snow covered grounds, aimlessly wandering, a strange tinge of melancholia on her face as she approached with Lord Petry Baelish, that vicious little slippery cunt who was more of an eel than a man, Roose firmly believed of Littlefinger.

The morning was untreated with light, and when was it ever not in Winterfell? What did the Starks used to say? _Winter is coming_. Was that it?

The grounds of the castle looked an unfinished painting. So much of the canvas was still perfectly white, as if waiting for the artist’s hand to return.

The morning light struggled through the murky gray clouds above their heads, but even its weakness it was enough to blind him. The air was of course, freezing and fucking deadly were one not clad in appropriate garb, but Roose had not quite expected the dampness that came before the freezing rain then.

Intricate patterns of ice floated weightlessly downward from the sky above, each flake and swirling and dancing, as an icy wind carried towards his face.

The Warden and the rest of his men were used to this kind of weather by this point, so pursing his thin lips into a rigid line as he trudged forward to greet their new distinguished guest. His first thought as his gaze befell the auburn-haired beauty was that his bastard cunt of a son did not deserve this creature.

Nor did the Imp for that matter, but he would be dealt with, in time. The Warden of the North heaved a strangely contented sigh, more of a grunt that escaped from the back of his throat as he marched forward, the snow seeping through his black leather boots and freezing his toes, though he ignored it.

Lord Roose Bolton enjoyed everything about this kind of weather, the satisfaction of being the first to make an impression in a blanket of freshly lain snow, the subtle crunch underfoot as he strode forward towards his son’s bride and the best all…the sight of her delicate features awaited him as he drew near.

Sansa Stark was said to be a witch, to possess the ability to transform into a she-wolf at will, the devil’s bride, the lover of the god of Death himself.

Such rumors of course, were stupid, peasant lies, and Roose was not about to even entertain the notion of digesting such ridiculous, slanderous gossiping.

The Imp’s wife was rumored to venture into the godswoods at nightfall and whisper black putrid thoughts of malice and revenge into Ned Stark’s severed head. At that particularly pleasant mental image, Roose scrunched his nose in disgust. He had a feeling he would know for certain soon enough of his own volition which of these rumors proved the truth and which were falsehoods.

Lord Bolton stifled a growl as he felt his bastard son walk in tandem beside him to greet their pair of guests. He did not avert his gaze or look away from Sansa Stark. She was, even the Warden had to confess it, such a delightful sight.

The cold winds of winter moved in only to meet the warmth of his blood, his only defense against such ice. He felt it wash over his skin, again and again, only to be met with the beat of his heart, again and again, and he previously believed this to be the only line of defense against such frigid fucking ice, but…

This, Roose knew, not to be the case, as his gaze remained fixated upon the figure of Sansa Stark. The girl was a lovely sight, truly a thing of beauty indeed.

Ramsay’s future bride was not a girl anymore and she would never be again. The traces of the girl she had been lingered in her face and the petite form of her body, though her curves had filled out a little, just enough to give her her adult shape, the comely figure of that of a young woman of eighteen years old.

She was but three years younger than his bastard Ramsay Snow, so the age was right. Not a little girl and not older than him. Her cobalt blue eyes were inquisitive. Her eyes were blue fire in water if you could imagine such a thing. They were passion in ice. When he met her gaze, he felt drawn into her eyes. The icy blueness generated a feeling like he was being pulled into a lake of frozen emotions. It was like all the myriad shades of blue swirled together to form a whirlpool of apprehension. Roose could tell by her body language that she did not like him, and those flickering azure orbs confirmed his thoughts.

Before the girl even turned as she murmured something into the shell of Lord Baelish’s ear, Lord Bolton found himself lost in an eerie trance of sorts.

Her auburn hair was the beautiful hues of flames against oak, against a face so pale as to be so striking. The strands flowed down to her shoulders, stopping in a line at just to the edges of her collarbones. Roose furrowed his brows in a frown, having been led to believe the girl’s luscious hair should be a bit longer. The Stark girl’s hair cascaded in natural ringlets about her pale face, so tousled by the winds of winter. In a strange way, it gave Sansa Stark a wild look, like her soul was untamed, and Lord Roose Bolton could admire that.

Lord Roose’s frown deepened as he swallowed past the lump in his throat. He found himself nursing a strange desire for this budding rose of a beauty currently standing stiff and rigid across from him and Ramsay Snow, which, was, of course, neigh impossible for him as he was married to Fat Walda.

And this little petite winter rose was to be wed to his bastard son soon. The Warden of the North felt himself bristle and he could hear Ramsay emanate a tense exhale from beside him as both men watched as Littlefinger held a gloved hand on her back, guiding her towards Bolton and whispering something lowly.

 _What are you whispering, snake in the night? You sly, roguish cunt, you._ Roose bit the wall of his cheek. He had always seen Lord Petyr Baelish as a vicious little whelp, a witless worm, and yet. He was the only fool bastard in that wretched gods’ asshole of a city King’s Landing that he could trust to bring his son his bride to him alive and unharmed, and so he had no other choice.

Lord Roose Bolton inhaled a sharp breath of cold frigid air that pained his lungs which sent his ribcage and lumbago and arthritis in his slightly gnarling and aging hands spiraling for sweet, sweet relief from the fucking brutal winds of winter, and the sooner they got this little farce over with, the better. He coughed once to clear his throat and commanded Stark’s attention.

“Lady Sansa,” he went on, “There can be no greater pleasure to have you back home within the walls of Winterfell. Where you rightfully belong, Sansa.”

His voice was crude, his tone clipped and hard as he regarded Sansa Stark in hesitation. Lord Bolton furrowed his brows into a frown as he could feel the girl flinch away and shy away in hesitation, fidgeting incessantly with her pink tipped fingers to keep them warm, and he could feel his scowl deepen as he saw the girl incessantly fidget with the yellow gold wedding ring she wore on her finger. But then she heard her emanate a tense exhale that escaped her lips and blew a puff of cold vapor in front of her face as she looked towards Roose.

As she jutted out her chin defiantly at a slight angle to meet Lord Bolton’s eyes, he felt the edges of his mouth twitch upwards as he fought back a smirk.

She was looking at him now with what the Warden of the North could only perceive as venom in her eyes, but then again, for that, he could not fault her.

Why would she not? For he and his kin were the ones who had slaughtered her family, butchering what remained of them at the infamous Red Wedding.

What his family had done with the corpses’ remains no doubt flitted through the Stark girl’s mind as her venomous gaze merely intensified, before something akin to a miracle occurred and then suddenly, Sansa Stark’s face relaxed and changed, as if by witch’s spell, and her features melted into a kind, warm smile.

It immediately lifted his mood and Lord Roose’s face curved into a genuine smile this time as she lifted the skirts of her gown a bit and bent her right knee and curtsied, dipping her head slowly, though her gaze never wavered from his.

“Milord Bolton,” she murmured quietly. “I can trust that my lord husband, Tyrion, would be joining us on the morrow, or so I was led to believe by our Queen Regent herself that my husband would be joining me relatively soon…I should like to speak with him when Lord Tyrion arrives. I need to see that my husband is alive and well, and you will send servants to prepare a space for him as well. He will be sharing my chambers and you will treat him with respect.”

But Sansa Stark’s voice trailed off as she looked towards Lord Baelish for confirmation, who silently gave her a curt nod, still keeping his gloved hand on the small of her back. Lord Roose Bolton felt a thousand possible retorts burning on the edges of his tongue threatening to escape his lips, but he bit back them all and composed his face into one of serene calmness and smiled.

“Of course, Lady Stark.” It was all he answered, and an impatient muffled noise from Ramsay Snow standing behind him alerted him back to the reason for standing out here in the bitter fucking cold like this. He let out a haggard sigh and stepped forward to make room so that his bastard son could step forward. He snorted, lowering his voice so that only he could hear himself.

The Warden of the North half expected the boy to take the girl by the face and kiss her, given the insatiable appetite for pretty girls Ramsay Bolton had.

The lowborn whores that he fucked at every opportunity seemed so insignificant compared to the celestial-like pretty creature that now stood in front of them both, unflinching and not seeming at all bothered by the frigid cold. The boy had no reason to keep his hands to himself, and yet, he saw a strange sort of disgust within his bastard’s eyes, more of a revolt than anything.

Ramsay Snow’s face was pale, and it had nothing to do with the biting cold that stole away their breaths or the blood in their cheeks. His lips were agape slightly, as if devoid of words, which Roose Bolton thought short of a miracle.

The Warden’s frown deepened as he heard his bastard son emanate yet another tense exhale as he stepped forward, exhaling slowly through his nose, willing his body to relax. He repressed his great urge to roll his eyes in disgust as Ramsay took the girl’s hand in his own gloved palm and brought her bone-white knuckles to his lips for a surprisingly tender and gentle kiss.

“Milady. It is a true pleasure to see you again. I must apologize to you for the ah…unorthodox greeting and my reactions towards you in King’s Landing, for I did not expect the news that you were already wed to the Imp to upset me so. Please, accept my apology and sincerity that it shall not happen again.” Lord Roose Bolton was hardly aware he’d drawn in a breath and held it as the girl’s antagonistic glower towards his vicious bastard son did not change. Sansa Stark must not have been able to detect any traces of animosity or deceit in Ramsay Snow’s tone, though her expression did not change, the pair of men watched as she dipped her head in acknowledgement, accepting Ramsay’s statement.

Lord Roose furrowed his graying brows into a frown and regarded Ramsay, feeling his brows knit together in quandary. His son had made no mention of whatever had transpired back in the capitol regarding him and his affianced. Whatever happened between the pair of them, the Warden could tell by Sansa Stark’s body language, the way her hip jutted out to the right and her azure orbs narrowed to slits, the tilting of her head as she regarded Ramsay, that she did not like his bastard son, and for that, Lord Roose could not fault Sansa.

“Might we go inside?” Sansa Stark spoke up softly, the faint susurration of her shy and hesitant voice almost becoming lost among the harsh gusts of wind, and Roose Bolton would have missed it entirely had he not already been hanging onto her every word.

“Of course, of course,” Lord Roose murmured, not bothering to hide his smirk of satisfaction as he felt the edges of his lips curl upwards into a sneer as the Stark girl refused his bastard son’s offering of his arm and took a few steps forward, effectively shrugging out of Littlefinger’s grasp in the entire process.

It seemed ages before the Warden offered up his voice as he attempted to make small talk, and it was with great reluctance that Sansa finally accepted Roose’s arm as they walked in tandem, and it was with no small feat that Roose realized the Stark girl was completely ignoring Ramsay, whose face flushed in rage, though a muscle in his jaw and behind his eyelid twitched, he made no comment, for which Lord Bolton and Sansa Stark were immensely grateful.

He sneered. _Childish_ , he thought as he caught glimpses of his bastard son falling into step on the other side of Sansa Stark, so now both Bolton men were effectively flanking the girl and leaving Lord Baelish to trail behind them all.

His son has always been childish, and this little arrange marriage between him and the Stark girl was not about to change that fact of him overnight.

Lord Roose Bolton lowered his tone an octave and had to kneel slightly at the knee, causing an involuntary flinch as his lumbago sent swells of pain up his spine, though he bit the wall of his cheek, fighting back the pain, and continued. “I must apologize for my son’s behavior towards you, Lady Stark.”

“It is fine, milord Bolton. The matter has been…dealt with accordingly.”

Sansa Stark refused to look at him, though Roose could have sworn he saw the girl smile as she watched out of her peripherals as Ramsay’s hand instinctively drifted towards his right shoulder. The boy’s arm had been stabbed, the wound still festered and stunk. It was a wonder it was not infected.

Her answer was curt, clipped and hard, and there was no mistaking the animosity that lingered in her voice, or the way her anger seemed to drip off of her words like poisoned honey, that things between her and Ramsay Snow were most assuredly not fine, and if the Boltons had any hope of maintaining their stronghold on the North and for Roose to keep his position as Warden of the North, then Ramsay would do well to remember his place and he would have to learn quickly to treat his future bride with even a modicum of respect.

The Warden had heard stories of how this girl had infamously slapped the vicious bastard cunt of a boy-king, Joffrey Baratheon, and if what Ramsay had told him of the girl was the truth, she was quite opinionated and spoke her mind. A mixture of Tully and Stark blood, Sansa Stark was a true diamond.

He could tell just by looking at her the Demon Monkey’s wife was a clever little thing and quite intelligent. Unfortunately, around his bastard son, she was going to have to be clever, but in a different kind of way here in Winterfell.

Unfortunately, he was beginning to think that Sansa Sark did not possess the capability to do so.

Lord Roose glanced down towards the Stark girl’s left hand, where even in the dim last casting shadows upon the wall of the hallways of Winterfell’s interior, their only shelter from the bitter cold of the raging blizzard outside, her gold wedding ring glittered proudly in the night, he felt a surge of anger course through his veins at the ideas the Lannisters married her to that accursed Imp.

And what was even _worse_ , he supposed, was the strange looks the girl kept casting towards it, her right constantly coming up to fidget with the small but still elegant piece of jewelry, an almost melancholic look in her cobalt blue eyes. Roose Bolton wondered if the supposed rumors were true.

If Ramsay’s future bride really _did_ care for the creature, and the fact remained their marriage remained unconsummated, which he found admittedly surprising considering the little wretch’s rumored fondness for pretty girls, a good pair of tits, and flagons of wine. The rumors swirling through the North and in the taverns about this man and his family, this devil, this monster, this demon, swirled around in travelers' and villagers' heads alike until they were just a jumbled mess of thoughts. Most that passed through Winterfell’s’ gates did not know what to believe, which rumors were true, and which ones were falsehoods.

The smallfolk of King’s Landing and anywhere else the Imp had dared to traipse, they all claimed that Tyrion fucking Lannister was nothing but a predator. How his eyes, despite the contusion over his left, were better than that of any hawk's, his teeth sharper than knives, how the demon had a tendency to move in the shadows until his chosen victim was in reach, and then the monster's short stubby little arms would shoot out from behind wherever he lurked in the darkness and pull you into his ironclad grasp, where he then darts off with you into that black night, and the poor soul that had the misfortune to be kidnapped by the accursed wretch was never seen from or heard from again.

For the most part, the people said you didn't even have enough time to call out for help and all you could hear was the crunching of your own bones as this monster of the great family of lions, the Lannisters’ shame, feasted upon your flesh. How the demon was so violent, he would snap your neck if you so much as _looked_ at him the wrong way. And yet, Roose could see it in her eyes.

That this celestial like creature currently ignoring his bastard son’s curious glances at her, a light pink blush speckling along her cheeks now that they had entered into the warmth of the estate that Sansa Stark had once dared to call home, that she cared for the little dwarf, perhaps more than she would admit to.

Roose could not help but to wonder if the Imp was going to present something of a problem for him, but it was under conditions of the man’s arrival to Winterfell that remained the sole and only reason Sansa Stark had agreed to the terms and conditions of her betrothal to his bastard Ramsay.

The matter of fact remained that Tyrion Lannister still breathed air was going to present something of a problem for the Bolton family, though he had a feeling that churned within the pits of his stomach that his bastard son would take care of the little dwarf soon enough, and then Tyrion Lannister would be history. The pair of them paused outside of the landing to the mezzanine.

“Your quarters are upstairs in the east wing, third door to the left,” Ramsay Bolton spoke up, his tone sounding strangely distant and muffled, as if underwater. “Your personal handmaiden Myranda will show you to your room. She has been assigned to you, milady. She will get you whatever you need, you need only ask and it is yours. I should want my future wife and mother of my children to be quite comfortable here, Lady Sansa,” Ramsay commented, his languid voice smooth as silk. Roose blinked as he swiveled his head slightly to regard the pair of women. The servant whom his bastard had mentioned was eyeing the Stark girl with an impassive look on her face, but there was no mistaking the glowing animosity in the servant wench’s eyes.

He glanced back towards Sansa Stark and was not disappointment in the look of befuddled confusion and when the servant made a move to grab the Stark girl’s arm, she wrenched it back violently and lifted her head blearily.

“I can walk on my own, thank you, ah…Myranda, was it?” The girl gave her a silent and stiff nod, and Roose could have avowed he saw Sansa stiffen at the lack of respect offered to her by the servant, though she made no remark.

The girl with the lanky mousey brown hair dipped her head in submission.

“Yes, milady.” Her jovial tone seemed forced, spat more than spoken, and Roose felt his gaze drift towards Sansa Stark, wondering what quandary was flitting through her mind at this very moment, what raged war in her mind.

It seemed to take Sansa Stark an eternity to her voice, and when she shifted slightly on her spot, having ascended the first step of the stairwell, she stiffly turned at the waist and seemed to have eyes only for Lord Roose, completely ignoring Ramsay, who was looking thoroughly cross by this blatant show of disrespect from his future wife and mother of any children they would have.

“Please send for me the moment my lord husband arrives.” She turned towards the servant girl, Myranda, whose head remained lowered. “If you would so kindly draw me a bath, milady, I would appreciate it,” she murmured. Sansa Stark turned back towards Lord Roose and fixed him with a surprisingly cold stare, and her words lacked warmth as she addressed the Warden. “My husband is to be treated with respect while he remains within Winterfell with me, Lord Bolton, upon his arrival. See to it. And make no mistake…” Her voice trailed off, though the hardened edges of her voice remained, and the cold glower in her cobalt blue eyes just as wrathful, resembling that of a blue flame, passionate and bright. “I shall know if he is not. His happiness is of the upmost importance to me, Lord Bolton. I hope you can understand that and respect my wishes, sir. I will be upstairs if you need me, milords.”

Unable to bear the uncomfortable silence in the corridor by the stairwell any longer, Sansa gave a curt nod of her head in acknowledgement and offered a simple curtsy towards the stunned pair of Bolton men, and without so much as another word, turned on the heel of her boot, picked up the skirts of her dress, and ascended the stairwell, tossing her wavy locks back over her shoulders.

Sansa felt as if her mind had stone coursing through it rather than blood. Her memories of home now felt disfigured and grotesque without Robb and Bran Arya and Rickon by her side. Sansa kept her gaze off Ramsay Bolton, who was still eyeing her as though he had been momentarily struck dumb, the power of speech seemingly having left his lips, something of a rarity for the young man.

Sansa could not bear to look at Ramsay any longer, because if they made eye contact, she thought that she might vomit all over the man's precious boots. Disgust. Total disgust. Hate and enmity welled up in the girl's heart, fury itself burning her up until she thought she would very burst into flames here.

Lord Bolton gave a curt nod, giving the girl silent permission to leave them be. Ramsay's father watched Lady Sansa curtsy gracefully towards Ramsay, and he sneered. _The wolf is back in her cage_ , the esteemed lord thought angrily. For just a moment, the old lord felt… _something_ towards Sansa Stark.

Desire. Yes. Lust and desire for this budding beauty of a rose, this white she-wolf. He did not know what possessed him to offer the Stark girl as a bride to Ramsay, perhaps he thought the responsibility and distraction of having a wife would quell the boy's insatiable bloodlust that could not seem to be quenched, despite it all. 

Oh, Lord Roose could see that Ramsay often tried to make an effort, that he was 'sorry' for the things he had said in a rage to his father the night before, how he just wanted Lord Bolton's acceptance, to be seen as his legitimate heir, but… Roose did not deny admitting to himself that he wanted things to go back to normal, but he could not.

How could he, for his trueborn son Domeric and his wife were dead? He was married to Fat fucking Walda, who it was rumored was expecting via the maester, though Lord Roose Bolton had yet to reveal their news to Ramsay. All he felt towards Ramsay was bitterness, and with each passing year it grew like a festering wound, pushing on the side of Roose that was serene, enveloping the lord in a strange toxic darkness, until all that was left was a disgusted self-loathing. Though perhaps he would begin to see a change in his son yet with the Stark girl. By the Gods, he could only hope so, or else there would be seven levels of holy hell to pay.

Only time would tell. He heard Ramsay let out a tired sigh. The question Ramsay Snow asked of his father was unlike him, the handsome boy's face a contrasting mix of restraint and desire, ice-cold blue eyes that were devoid of warmth and anything that even resembled an inkling of human kind were still fixated upon Sansa Stark, eyeing her figure in her fur-lined cape and her simple gown.

"Do I deserve her, Father?"

To that, Lord Roose Bolton, Warden of the North had no answer.


	19. Sansa

** Sansa **

The air around her felt so brittle that Sansa wondered if it might snap, and if it did not, then she just might. She could feel the fear in her chest waiting to take over. Perhaps it only wanted to protect her but there really wasn’t any danger.

Yet. The fear sat there like a weight upon her shoulders, like an angry ball propelling her towards an anxiety she did not need, for she already had enough.

She worried for Tyrion and hoped to see him again soon. She had gone from suffering the company of Lions, to now in a pit of poisonous vicious Snakes.

 _Snakes in the night, the whole lot of them,_ she thought angrily, and as she wrenched open the door to her bedchambers, she blinked, and raised a hand to her face to shield her eyes from the copious amounts of dust that had settled in the air. As she entered into the otherwise plain looking bedroom, inside was a narrow bed, bedside table with a candle holder and a simple chest of drawers.

There was also a small window, through which now the sunlight streamed through, the sky and blizzard still raging war with one another outside.

The little servant girl who trailed behind her had barely said two words to her, though as the girl who Sansa now knew to be called Myranda lingered in the doorway’s entryway, her arms folded neatly behind her back, she spoke up.

“It really is something, isn’t it? A pretty sight indeed,” she sighed wearily, causing Sansa to turn her head and regard the young woman a year or two younger than her who had escorted her up the stairs, though in actuality, the girl had followed her, for Sansa did not need escorting within the walls of home.

 _Home_. Just the thought of the word alone was enough to send a painful swell of remorse and regret through her heart, tugging on the strings of that stubborn corded muscle within the confines of her chest. Here she was back in Winterfell.

And this was _not_ her home. Not without her family, or even… _Tyrion_. At the thought of her husband, she felt her throat begin to constrict and tighten and she swallowed hard past the lump in her throat. Lord Tywin and the Queen Regent had reassured her of Tyrion’s safety, and he would be arriving to Winterfell within a few days’ prior to her arrival here, though what Bolton wanted with her husband, she could not even begin to comprehend what their need might be.

This, at least, gave her some form of comfort. That she would not have to be alone in the company of insufferable men. She blinked, realizing the kennel master’s daughter was still waiting for Sansa to answer her. She swallowed hard down past the growing, swelling lump in her throat that was threatening to cause her to pass out and blinked back the beginnings of salty, briny tears. “It is.”

She was not at all certain if this new she-stranger was referring to the blizzard outside or what she might be talking about, and she found it disconcerting that this girl wished to talk. She averted the girl’s gaze and continued looking at the snow swirling in vicious flakes and gusts of wind outside. As she closed her eyes, she felt them begin to well up with tears.

Tyrion had been right. Her mother and father would have wanted her to carry on. And Arya, too, she supposed, in her own way. She had to be strong and survive so that she could see Lord Tyrion again and be with a man who she had once dared to scorn and ridicule, simply because he bore the Lannister name and wore their colors. Strange. Now, compared to this foreign, unfamiliar place with strange, unfamiliar people, an eternity with Tyrion by her side seemed like a beautiful paradise to Sansa.

The girl, Myranda, spoke up, and it was not until her voice reached Sansa’s eardrums did she realize that the young brunette had moved to stand beside her.

For a moment, Sansa recoiled, feeling as though her personal space—this had been her room growing up—had been violated, as well as the growing uncomfortable close proximity of the girl, for her shoulder was practically nudging against Sansa’s. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, as she was apt to do whenever she was nervous and gingerly moved away from the girl.

“I wouldn’t even consider that an option if I were you,” she answered steadily. “There are wolves in the forest, milady. And… _other_ things,” she sighed. “You wouldn’t want one of your pretty legs to be ripped off trying to escape.”

The girl’s face flushed downward, a light pink blush speckling on her cheeks.

Silence befell the pair of women, but Sansa, who considered herself to be an excellent judge of character, though not as good a one as her lord husband, could sense the tension and animosity that seemed to emanate off the kennel master’s daughter. And Sansa was quick to decide that she did not like it at all.

Myranda’s eyes were every hue of the forest, rimmed coolly with dark moss. It was the kind of earthy green that revived the grass of the forest floor after a cruel, unforgiving winter. Interwoven shades hiding the chaotic nature behind, though the tension and animosity that lingered in the girl’s bright orbs for Sansa lingered and was evident, plain as day or as plain as the nose on Sansa’s face.

Never before had a pair of eyes held such danger and a beauty all at once. This girl, this kennel master’s daughter, Myranda, was a wild fire: reckless, untamed, and yet there was an aspect to her personality that was undeniably captivating, and Sansa had recollected how, only moments ago downstairs, she had looked at Sansa Stark with such an utter look of loathing in her green orbs.

Sansa swerved her head to glance to the right at Myranda, who had seemingly followed her gaze towards where Sansa’s eyes were fixated, at the edge of the godswoods. “I—I wasn’t,” Sansa whispered, attempting to keep her voice as level as possible, though it was as if her mind had been spelled, as if the woods were calling to her. Though she could not seem to tear her gaze away from the forest.

Stepping into the godswoods robbed you of one sense and heightened the others. It was disorienting to be almost blinded but given the ears of a Wolf. How your sense of smell was sensitized, the loam in the earth and the decomposing leaves made the atmosphere in the woods close and suffocating. The blackness of the godswoods blackness nurtured a sense of claustrophobia inside you even though the woodland stretched unbroken for miles. The narrow path, which was made uneven by the knotted roots that crossed it, branched at intervals. There was no map to follow, but even if there was the perpetual dark would prevent you from using it. Only the songs of the elders would take you through. That's why the children sang them every night before bed and then again after breaking their fast. They were the only way to navigate.

Sansa wondered if she could sneak out to the godswoods later tonight and lay in wait for Tyrion. She could not— _would not_ —allow Ramsay to touch her. She repressed a shudder as the wretched feeling of cold washed over her body. “I—I think I would like that bath now,” she murmured, her blush deepening as she turned and regarded Myranda. “If you please, if you could draw me up one with hot water and leave a rag, I can fend for myself, Myranda.”

Sansa fell silent and she could have sworn she witnessed the tightening on Myranda’s jawline, and it left her to wonder what emotions flitted through her in this moment. Hatred? Loathing? A misguided sense of jealous for her marriage?

She half expected the kennel master’s daughter when the girl’s lips parted open slightly to protest, but Myranda did no such thing. She dipped her head in submission and offered a brief little curtsy. “As you wish, Lady Stark,” in a slight offhanded manner before turning towards the doorway, making to leave, a hand on the frame of the door to steady herself.

“I will fetch you your water, but…before I forget, I should take precautions to warn you against the wolves. You will be quite safe within the confines of Winterfell and its grounds, and you shan’t find any ravenous wolves once you are safe inside here,” the kennel master’s daughter commented, “We try our best to hunt them all down and control their growing numbers as much as possible, but if you do decide to ah…venture into the godswoods on your own, do be careful, milady. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to you before your wedding night, would we?”

Myranda clucked her tongue in mock disappointment, and something about the other girl’s tone sent Sansa’s blood ablaze as she felt the familiar hot spark of anger well deep within the pit of her stomach. “You forget that I _am_ married.”

Sansa did not bother to adjust her voice. She knew her voice sounded clipped and clearly disapproving of the thinly veiled threat this girl was attempting to scare her with. She shook the sleeve of her gown slightly and briefly flashed the yellow gold ring she proudly wore upon her left hand.

The kennel master’s daughter’s face flushed, and she blanched, immediately trying to correct herself. Perhaps she was quick to realize that either Sansa or Lord Tyrion whenever he arrived could hang her for her insubordination.

“Of course, milady. I—it’s just that…you must take better care over what you say. I must confess, that I do not know what it was like for you in King’s Landing, where you were able to get away with your silly little outbursts and the hitting of the king. Oh yes,” she added in a voice dripping with false glee, “I know all about that from milord Bolton. “You are used to someone being ridiculed and mocked at, but here, this is not the Winterfell that you know.”

Every word uttered from Myranda’s lips stung, only fueling the fire that burned inside of Sansa’s blood like Wildfire. Every violated phrase was like oil to it, her fists began to clench and un-clench at her sides and her jaw rooted shut.

“You know naught of which you speak, Myranda. For you were not here when my family and I resided within these walls,” Sansa added, unable to recollect their old kennel master ever having a daughter, and it was then that she was able to put two and two together and realize this girl standing in her doorway came with the rest of the Bolton men and their armies when they had invaded.

To her credit, Myranda did not seem to grow incensed by Sansa’s comment, for she merely proceeded to dip her head in acknowledgement and intertwine her hands together, bringing them to rest on her stomach. “Of course, milady. I meant no offense,” she added, though it was clear by the mocking genuflections of her tone that she did.

The dislike for Sansa emanated throughout her voice.

“I merely meant to convey that, life under the Boltons is…” her voice trailed off, and she weaved her fingers in through her knuckles as she seemed to be struggling to find the right words to phrase exactly what was on her mind, “ _difficult_ , to say the least, though I suppose I don’t have to tell you about difficult men,” she managed to say, and she offered a wry, sardonic smile that was in actuality more of a smirk, for it gave her dull features a twisted grimace, at noting the look of shock and awe forming on Sansa’s features, “and that here, in this world, such…behavior, it is not only looked down upon, but seen as treason.”

Sansa blinked owlishly at the young woman, surprised by the kennel master’s daughter’s boldness, though she found herself much too tired to scold her now.

She found herself swallowing and offering the young brunette a curt nod, silently communicating that she understood. Myranda returned the gesture and clicked her tongue and shook her head. “I should go and draw the water for your bath now, lest I forget. We wouldn’t want you catching your death up here.” The kennel master’s daughter slowly turned around, showing her backside to Sansa, and paused, her hand still hovering on the door frame. “Oh. I almost forgot. There’s just one last thing. I did not get a chance to say it downstairs.”

Sansa waited, growing rather nervous and impatient for the girl to say her piece, her brows knitting together in quandary as she perceived the servant girl’s hesitations, as though Myranda never actually meant to convey this final piece of information, whatever it was at the kennel master’s daughter wanted to say.

She watched and fell silent. “You are so beautiful…milady. I think that you will be…quite happy, with milord Bolton as your husband, Lady Stark. Oh and…the North remembers.” Myranda allowed a strange little giddy chuckle to escape her lips as she offered an awkward little half curtsy and fled the chamber.

Sansa could only watch as she processed the lies over the girl’s lips, faking smiles, and her falsely honeyed words, trying to convince everybody she was perfectly fine.

She wondered if this Myranda was just trying to convince the world or maybe she just desperately wanted to convince herself. She supposed she’d never know.

Sansa scowled and turned away from the door to look back out towards the window, biting the wall of her cheek as she shoved aside thoughts of Myranda.

She had no interest in making friends anymore, though she had a feeling she could guess if Tyrion were here by her side, that he would tell her to try to make the effort, given that allegiances were won, sides formed, by conversing with people. Though why anyone would want to converse with someone like Myranda, she who appeared to be taking the side of the strangers in her home, was beyond Sansa’s ability to comprehend her reasonings as to why that was.

A light rap on her door made her jump. She startled and turned at the waist, believing it to be Myranda, back already with the buckets of hot water for her bath, and was initially less than pleased to see Littlefinger standing in the entry.

“Lord Baelish. I thought you had left already back to King’s Landing.” Her tone was curt and hardened at the edges. Lord Baelish noticed her forlorn expression, and his own cheerful expression hardened as well as he crossed over the threshold that separated her personal chambers from that of the hallway of the east wing of Winterfell, not bothering to wait for permission. She scowled at the man’s lack of proper edict, though she was entirely too exhausted to argue.

She watched as Littlefinger’s cheerful smile faltered, and for a brief moment, Sansa could not help but to wonder if the two of them were going to have a problem with one another. “I thought I would stay and ensure that you were comfortable and settling in before taking my leave of this place, Lady Stark,” he began slowly. “Is it not enough that you are back home in Winterfell? This should be enough for you, milady. You will be quite happy here with the Boltons, and I am sure once you have the Imp by your side again, his company should be more than enough to provide you with some semblance of peace.”

“Do not call Tyrion that,” snapped Sansa, her head whiplashing so sharply upward as she turned to regard Lord Baelish that he had to move backward in order to avoid her head connecting with his. _Lies, lies, yet more of your lies_ , Lord Baelish, she thought poisonously, and for one moment, one horribly insane moment, dark visions of Littlefinger’s death danced in front of her mind.

Sansa furrowed her brows into a frown as she regarded her old family friend, who it should be noted, was eyeing her yellow-gold wedding ring she wore with no small measure of disgust in his narrow and beady eyes, practically crinkling his nose and pulling a face out of sheer revulsion for Lord Tyrion Lannister.

She exhaled a shaking breath through her nose, willing her body to relax, though ever since the heel of her boot had stepped foot back onto Northern soil, the tension in her shoulders had only worsened. How could such a place of what was once so much joy and happy memories now be filled with such heartbreak?

“You will treat my husband with respect, Lord Baelish,” she scolded, her frown deepening, though she was internally relieved when he nodded in agreement. “Why could Lord Tyrion not come with us? Why must he arrive a few days behind me? I—I am afraid that I do not understand!” she cried angrily.

Lord Baelish bit the wall of his cheek, looking away for a moment to compose himself. “Your…husband,” here, Littlefinger spat the word as though it were a bitter poisoned that had hardened and settled upon the wretched appendage that was his tongue, “is hardly a man, Lady Sansa. Do not give me that look, my dear, you know that I speak the truth,” he added, noticing the dark look Sansa shot him that had she the ability to would have turned him to stone. “The plain and hard truth is that the creature to whom you have pledged the rest of your life, has, ah…shall we say…corrupted your soul. What is left of it, rather.”

Sansa made a strangled little choking noise in the back of her throat as she felt her jaw drop open in shock as she spluttered and stammered to think of a retort. “That…you have overstepped your place, Lord Baelish. What you say is absolutely _not_ true. I am afraid that I must correct you,” she answered coldly, no traces or semblance of warmth or kindness in her otherwise soft, tenor voice.

She felt a wash of cold come over her body that had nothing to do with the frigid temperatures of her bedchambers as she shifted at the waist to look at him.

“Oh?” Lord Baelish challenged, folding his arms behind his back as he adjusted his stance to regard Sansa was the exact moment that Sansa felt like she was truly in a dire predicament. She immediately began to regret her decision to come with Baelish back to Winterfell, especially without Tyrion by her side.

Sansa silently seethed, grinding her teeth in anger, her nails digging into the skin of her palms. “My husband has not corrupted me, Littlefinger. He did not…force me to marry him. The choice was removed from us. The match was ordered by Lord Tywin, though Lord Tyrion has been nothing but kind to me. Just because he is…short,” she confessed, her scowl deepening as she witnessed Baelish’s smirk widening. She would not call him a dwarf, though there was no denying that was what he was. In her mind, it felt demeaning. She swallowed and continued, nervously fidgeting with her fingers. “It is not okay for the rest of Westeros to treat him the way the people have been,” she snapped, feeling her temper swell and all of sudden, her tongue felt thick in her mouth. “Just because of the way that he was born, of which he had no control over, that does not make it okay for him to be reviled as a monster. And what of you, Baelish?”

She did not know where this sudden surge of fiery rage was coming from as she jabbed a sharp finger in Lord Baelish’s chest, propelling him backwards. “Do you yourself not have flaws? What of you? Please do not contradict my beliefs or condemn my husband, for to do that is to condemn me, Lord Baelish, and that is not a path you want to walk down, old friend,” she snarled, baring her canines, and she did not bother to hide her smile of satisfaction as the briefest flickers of fear and something akin to admiration darted through Baelish’s orbs.

She had never spoken to him in this way. “Do not do this, Littlefinger. He only wants what the everyone else in the Seven Kingdoms has. A _normal_ life, as close to one as he can come to, at least. A wife, which I am, at least I was the last time I checked,” she sniffed, glancing down at her ring finger. “Children of his own, one day,” she sighed. “And…” Sansa hesitated, biting down hard on her lip, and sticking it out in a slight pout, wondering if she should divulge in her plan to Littlefinger.

How she refused to allow Ramsay to so much as lay a single finger on her if they were to be wed, and how the only one she would allow to touch her in such an intimate manner was that of her lord husband, and she would sneak out to the godswoods every night if she had to until Tyrion arrived, for it was the right thing to do. Tyrion would be kind to her, gentle with her during, she hoped. Patient. Understanding of her needs. Everything that Ramsay Snow was not. Sansa scowled, not liking the omniscient look in the man’s eyes who claimed to have her best interests at heart.

“Tyrion just wants to be happy. As do I. We deserve a chance at that much, at least. And now, here I am about to be wed to him, when I am already legally married. This…this is _your_ fault, Littlefinger…” Sansa swallowed nervously, not at all liking the look Lord Baelish was giving her.

The cold look reflected on his face gave her the chills, and she hoped the look of disgust for the man in her cobalt blue eyes was not evident, though Sansa could not stop the tensing of her limbs or the involuntary scrunching of her nose in disgust for the man next to her. She felt her jaw lock up even as she spat the words to Lord Baelish, hearing the venom drip from her words like poisoned Honeywine. She breathed a shaking breath as she tossed her hair over her shoulders, wishing the servant girl from earlier would bring her bath water so she’d have a viable excuse to kick Littlefinger out of her personal quarters that he’d entered into _uninvited_.

Sansa huffed in frustration and folded her arms across her chest, unable to believe this was her current predicament. She was quite certain she would not last one night in Bolton’s company before the overwhelming need to spit in his handsome, miserable face was a need. Oh, gods, how she wanted it more than anything, the desire almost ached, and she could feel a strange heat pool between her legs as she wished Tyrion were here. He’d know what to say.

She felt the need well deep within the pit of her stomach to spit in Ramsay Bolton’s face for what he had attempted to do to her back in their chambers and spiral upwards, warming her entire body from the tips of her toes in her boots until she could practically taste it on her tongue, and came to Sansa like a knife in her back, twisted without fear as she looked into the icy coldness of Littlefinger’s piercing gaze, almost listless, she wondered what he was thinking.

If he felt anything for anyone anymore. Sansa turned sharply away and silently dismissed Lord Baelish with a curt wave of her hand, unable to bear looking into Littlefinger’s eyes anymore, because if they made eye contact, she thought that she might vomit all over the man’s precious black leather boots.

Hate and enmity welled within her heart, her fury burning her up inside at her and Lord Tyrion’s predicament until she thought she would likely burst into flames where she stood. “Get out.” Her voice was curt, her tone angry.

Littlefinger did not need to be told a second time. Lord Baelish turned his head back over his shoulder to regard Sansa Stark in silence as he made his way down the hallway, a sneer forming upon his thin lips. _The She-Wolf is back in her den at long last. She’s back where she belongs_. For just a moment, Littlefinger felt…something towards Lady Catelyn’s daughter, though he was not quite at all sure what it was. Desire? Yes, that was it. Desire. For Sansa Stark. He did not know what had possessed him to develop the plan to offer to wed her to the Bolton family, though he had met with the Hand of the King and Queen Regent and the pair were adamant about getting the Stark girl out of King’s Landing, though there was the troublesome problem of the Imp.

Damn slippery little bastard was on his way here as he watched her, of that Littlefinger had no doubt. The fact that the two of them still remained married…

That, he simply could not allow. He had sworn to Catelyn to look after her, and the girl deserved a chance with a proper husband, a normal man, a handsome one, like Lord Roose Bolton’s son, and perhaps if something could be done regarding Tyrion fucking Lannister, then that final black stain upon Sansa Stark’s life could be removed, that she could begin anew again with Ramsay. Maybe she would quell the bastard’s insatiable bloodlust that could not seem to be quenched, despite Lord Roose’s best efforts at doing so over the year, if what Roose had told him during their initial correspondence was true.

Baelish did not deny admitting to himself that he wished for things to go back to normal, but how could they, for Lady Catelyn was dead. The last of the Stark family was currently standing at the edge of her window in her bedchambers, watching the raging blizzard outside as though nothing else in her world existed.

He scowled as he recognized the strange look of longing in the girl’s eyes, and he knew that Sansa Stark was thinking of _him_. Lord Baelish emanated a tired exhale as he descended the stairwell. He had, at the very least, ensured her safety and comfort here with the Boltons, though what to do with little Tyrion…

Lord Baelish frowned as his cloak whipped haphazardly in the winds of winter as he headed towards the stables. The best he could do at this venture was to return to King’s Landing and await further instructions from his Queen.

He was not aware of Sansa watching his every move, unmoving from her window, and it was only when she was alone that she allowed the tears to burst forth from her eyes like water from a dam, spilling down her face. Sansa exhaled a shaking breath as she looked out towards the godswoods of Winterfell, as if the edges of the trees could somehow soothe her frayed nerves and fractured spirit.

There was a strange feeling deep within the confines of her chest, a side effect of the constant fear that she lived with, constant stress of how the people treated her husband, and to a lesser extent, herself ever since she had married Tyrion.

The mounting stress from the taxing events of the day took something out of her that Sansa did not even know she had left to give. That’s just the way it was when people were hard. It was like a theft of the spirit, an injury no one else could see, but only if she allowed them to, and the only one she had allowed to see it so far was Tyrion. As much as she tried to hold it in, the pain came out like an uproar from her throat in the form of a silent scream.

The beads of water started falling down one after another, without a sign of stopping. She balled her hand into a fist and hit the wall, and tried to scream, but her voice was melted by the sound of the place. The muffled sobs wracked against her chest, and she was unaware of another figure lingering in the doorway, Myranda had returned with the buckets of hot water for her bath, listening to every single one of Sansa Stark’s heart wrenching cries of anguish.

The kennel master’s daughter wore an expression on her face like her insides had curdled like milk with lemon, and when at last Myranda stepped from the shadows, Sansa lifted her tear-stained face and understood why she had spoken to her from the darkness. What could have otherwise been a pretty face, was now rendered ugly by the scowl etched upon Myranda’s features. In the split second that her face was illuminated as she crossed the threshold, entering Sansa’s room carrying the buckets of water, Sansa’s face fell from hope to horror and then to a controlled visage of concern as the girl started to draw her a bath.

This place, this place that used to be home, was ugly. It had never been beautiful, and as Sansa reluctantly allowed Myranda to help her out of her clothes and into the bath, she realized that she was well and truly trapped.

Sansa gingerly slid down into the water, letting it block out the sounds around her. She wished she were in the lake near the heart tree in the godswoods, that she could go swimming, like she used to with her siblings. Those days were a special treat, but those days were no longer anymore.

Now…without Tyrion by her side, she was alone and trapped with no way out.

She started to fear for the worst.


	20. Jaime

** Jaime  **

The air inside Tyrion’s prison cell was different, and for a moment, Jaime was unable to put his finger on why. Then it occurred to him. The smell of sweat and piss and shit and vomit were just… _gone_. There was no sound of people, nothing but silence. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The place was just walls, walls, and a cage.

Here, Jaime could feel the icy grip of Death.

His brother’s prison cell in the dungeons was little more than a hollow cube of stone, one way in, only one window with bars on it. It was completely disorienting by design. Given enough time, a person could forget their name in this fucking place.

The isolation was total and the stimulation zero. No sound, no light, save for the two lit torches on either side of the entryway, and even that those torches’ only purpose was to light the way for the guards to deliver meals and water to their prisoners they guarded. It was all a prisoner could do to feel the cold slab of cobblestone beneath their cracked and calloused palms, but even they were smooth. Jaime frowned and sighed.

Jaime had never quite seen his brother look this way, and even as he held the torch to Tyrion’s face, the torch’s flames sent its warmth and light far out into the prison cell, flashing red and orange reflections. But even he could tell the warmth didn’t reach his brother’s soul. If anything, Tyrion felt cold. Cold and alone, fuming in his anger, self-loathing and no doubt still processing the whore’s betrayal during his trial when she had, according to Tyrion, lied to Tywin’s face on the witness stand, and the fact that his wife had been sold to Lord Roose Bolton for his bastard son to wed, despite the fact that Sansa Stark had seemed nothing but faithful towards Tyrion, and he had been able to tell over the weeks of their increasingly warm friendship during the weeks of their engagement she seemed to genuinely respect and care for Tyrion, despite his status as a Lannister man. Sansa Stark was an unusual but resilient young woman, even Jaime could see it. She did not seem to mind the fact that he was a dwarf, or his facial scar.

The Stark girl’s imperfections seemed to make her perfect. There was a certain kind of shyness to her, hesitation in her body movements and a softness in her voice.

Sansa’s eyes, like the indigo ocean of the sea, were pools of iridescent blue, similar to Tyrion’s, sculpted upon her creamy face like dazzling jewels. His brother’s wife was truly a sight to behold, and the only thing Jaime ever wanted for Tyrion was for his brother to know some semblance of peace and happiness in an otherwise unfair and wretched life, though it was clear by the look on his face the sting of the whore’s betrayal was still great, though Jaime had a feeling in the pit of his stomach the Stark girl could quickly help him forget the whore. That is, if he could get to her in time.

Another raven from Winterfell had come. This letter addressed to Tyrion, in Sansa’s script. Jaime had purposefully left that wax seal unbroken. It was clear that it was meant for her lord husband’s eyes and no one else’s, though there was more than a small part of his mind that confessed he would be lying to himself if he claimed he were not curious as to the words that Sansa Stark had written, for her husband’s eyes only.

Even now, Jaime could see it in Tyrion’s eyes that he cared for his new wife. Tyrion’s shoulders were slumped, and his eyes cast downward in a mournful glazed stare. His mouth was set in a semi-pout as he remained huddled in the corner of the cell.

Stunned. There was no other word that would adequately describe the whirlwind vortex of emotions that flitted through his younger brother’s orb long after the young Stark woman had been escorted away from King’s Landing despite violently protesting the forced arranged marriage to Lord Roose Bolton’s bastard son. Jaime did not bother to hide the smirk that curved his lips upward as he recollected the choice words the Stark She-Wolf had dared to scream in near hysterics at Lord Petyr Baelish and Cersei.

Jaime watched as Tyrion read the scroll Jaime swiped from the desk of the Hand of the King, where Cersei had apparently received a raven from Winterfell stating the Stark girl had safely arrived and Lord Baelish was on his way back. Rage seemed to hiss through Tyrion’s body like a deathly poison, screeching a demanded release in the form of unwanted violence. It was like a volcano erupting, his fury sweeping off him in ferocious waves, burning everything in sight. The awful hollowness, his waves of wretchedness threatening to engulf his mind, body, and soul.

Tyrion crumpled the parchment into a tight ball and swiped the torch out of Jaime’s good hand and burned it, his cobalt blue eyes flashing angrily, darkening to an azure hue in color as the scroll began to blacken and burn. Tonight for Tyrion, Jaime knew, would remain with his brother, always. He did not know how any lesser man could stomach so much betrayal in the course of one evening and not implode, but Tyrion was more so the man than he could ever hope to be. Jaime watched as the anger practically coursed through Tyrion’s veins and he mutely nodded to Jaime, signaling he was ready.

“Bronn and Qyburn are waiting for you outside, horses at the ready to take you to Winterfell. Cersei received a raven. Your wife is safe.” His first words to Tyrion. He watched with no small level of amusement as his brother’s head whiplashed sharply upwards to regard his taller, handsome brother, a look of revolt on his handsome face, though given half of his face was shrouded in shadow, and the other bathed in light that emphasized the pink and white jagged lines of his scar from the Battle of Blackwater, and under normal circumstances, Jaime might have laughed at the look of revulsion on Tyrion’s face at the mention of Maester Qyburn, though laughing was the last thing he felt like doing at the moment as he silently led the way through the dungeons. Jaime furrowed his blond brows into a frown as he led his brother to safety.

The dungeon’s tunnel curled away coldly into infinite darkness, the light from the torch clutched in his one good hand that showed the rough walls dwindling as it snaked away. His skin shuddered and he could feel his brain starting to defocus as thoughts of what would happen if it were to be discovered it was he who had helped Tyrion escape flooded his distracted mind, searching for another way, though he knew of only this one.

“Why the hell is that vicious rogue bastard coming with Bronn and me? He’s a shifty piece of shit, Jaime. I don’t trust him any further than I could stab him,” Tyrion growled, no warmth in his voice, an interesting gleam in his cobalt eyes that caused moisture to form at the corners of his eyes and glisten, though no tears spilled over.

Jaime snorted and rolled his eyes, though he knew Tyrion could not see it and felt a dark little sardonic chuckle escape his lips at hearing the disdain in his brother’s voice at learning of the revelation that Qyburn would be accompanying him to Sansa. “Cersei’s orders, I’m afraid, brother, but…the maester isn’t so bad. It is of our sister’s belief that old Maester Wolkan in the North is past his prime, and…oh, bloody hell, for all I fucking know, Qyburn’s just coming to report on Sansa’s movements, brother,” he grumbled, heaving a heavy sigh, and glancing down at his golden hand.

In truth, he himself did not fully trust the healer. He hadn’t trusted the man not to amputate his arm when he’d allowed Qyburn to treat his amputated stump after Locke cut it off out of a force of spite, and… “Now _this_ ,” he grumbled, letting the heavy golden hand fall against his thigh, where it accidentally clanged against the metal of his Valyrian sword louder than he’d have liked, and he winced, glancing behind his shoulder only the once, hoping no one heard. Jaime caught sight of not two figures but three, and upon nearing the enclosure near the edge of the woods that bordered the Red Keep, he blanched and felt the heat creep to his cheeks. “Oh,” he managed after a long silence as he stared at Brienne of Tarth. “I err…didn’t know that _you_ would be here. Why...what...what are you doing here?” He bit the wall of his cheek and shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other as he forced himself to meet her gaze, desperately trying to ignore the ache within his chest.

Brienne noticed the way he was looking at her and furrowed her brows into a confused frown, her hands on her hips.

“I made a promise to Lady Catelyn to protect her daughters. Given the younger is most likely dead by now, I owe Lady Sansa my life, milord. I aim to keep that promise, Ser Jaime.” Her voice was steady, and Brienne of Tarth’s resolve strong. An admirable trait. One that he wished that he could bottle up and keep close to his chest. Jaime nodded mutely, his face paling and his tongue felt thick in his mouth.

There was something about the abnormally tall wench’s eyes that ignited a baser desire deep within the confines of his chest and sent an unfamiliar warmth spiraling through his body, though by the gods and seven hells below, he would never admit it. Whenever he looked in the woman’s eyes, something foreign and unfamiliar not only stirred within him, but overtook his thinking, and even now, he bit down on his tongue.

He was beginning to have rather inappropriate thoughts of the female warrior from the Islands of Tarth. Jaime felt his lip curl and his nostrils flare as he fought back against the baser part of himself that he fought so incredibly to tame the past few years.

Jaime swallowed hard past the lump in his throat as the wild stream of thoughts continued flitting through his mind as his gaze wandered the length of the Tarth woman’s body and settled upon her hair at last. She’d let it grow a bit since the last time he’d seen her, and her straw-colored hair just brushed to past the edges of her shoulders.

It curled in slight kinks and waves, and for a wild moment, Jaime wondered what the wench would look like in a gown. Not the pink monstrosity Bolton’s men forced her into when they’d shoved her into the bear pit, but a proper one that would bring out the blue in Brienne of Tarth’s eyes. Her eyes sparkled like storm clouds right before lightning hit.

Clouds of grey and blue threatened floods and fury while pupils dilated in passion, eyelashes catching the raindrops. She cared far too much and one day, he wondered if that would be this woman’s undoing. There was something about the shared ordeal they’d undergone when Lady Catelyn Stark had commanded of Brienne of Tarth to escort Jaime back to King’s Landing, that made him feel…young inside.

But not in a childish way, and different whenever he was around his sister. No. Brienne woke the pure side of Jaime, the best side, the facets of himself that only required affection and, dare he even think this next part, love, to be whole, healthy. Their energy whenever they were around one another, as proven to Jaime several times over the course of several months in the Tarth woman’s company, vibrated in such a unique way, he had never developed a connection quite like what he shared now.

Ser Bronn of the Blackwater was staring at Jaime in a way that was making him feel immensely uncomfortable as Brienne offered Jaime a pained look of acknowledgement and helped to ready Bronn, Qyburn, and Podrick’s horses, Oathkeeper resting its in sheath against her thigh. Tyrion noticed Bronn’s fixated gaze that remained solely focused on Jaime, whose sole center was on Brienne and for the first time since the trial, he smiled at him.

“Don’t gimme that fuckin’ look, Ser Jaime Fucking Lannister. You want to fuck that Tarth woman. You just don’t want to admit it to anyone, Jaime…” Ser Bronn’s expression was one of a smug triumph, as he folded his arms across his chest.

Jaime groaned and let out a heavy sigh, thumping his hand to his forehead and dragging it down the side of his face in anguish, running a hand through his blond hair.

Though he would never admit Bronn the fucking bastard was right, to want her, he would most likely have to walk away. It was what was best for Brienne. Safer, at least.

Besides, he had other priorities right now than to think about the health of his heart and mind, wondering what a certain female knight thought of him, her true opinions.

If that wasn’t conflicted, then Jaime did not know what was. “Fuck,” he growled. Jaime felt mortified that Bronn had somehow seen right through him. Had he really been that obvious? He turned away from Brienne’s questioning stare with a furtive, guilty look on his face and glanced down towards Tyrion, whose lips were agape and his face pale, as if hit by blizzard. For the first time, Tyrion seemed at a loss for words.

Jaime felt traumatized. He couldn’t believe it had happened, and in front of everybody too. He stood rooted to his spot by the clearing of the woodland path, his head beginning to spin. He’d never fucking live this down as long as he fucking lived.

There was nothing for it. He could leave King’s Landing. Cast off his identify as a Lannister and start somewhere new. Tyrion’s gaze flickered between his older brother and the comfort of the rocky ground beneath their boots. Embarrassment fell upon Jaime like a weapon of the gods, the cruel cunts that they were, capricious and merciless. It was a torment for the meek, the ones not bold enough to be immune.

His brother, god bless Tyrion, came to his rescue, lowering his voice so that neither Pod nor Brienne heard him coming to his older brother’s rescue. “We don’t pay you to put evil notions in our heads, Bronn. The ones already there don’t need your company.”

Bronn snorted and turned away. “You pay me to kill people who bother you. The evil notions come free, and last time I checked, there’s one vicious bastard of a cunt who, if I recall, almost raped your pretty little wife the morning after your wedding an’ got away with it, and that fucking pissed you off something awful. You promised me a woman and a castle of my own if I help you, and that’s what I’m gonna fuckin’ do, milord.” His piece said, he snorted and turned away, barking an order toward Podrick.

Jaime heaved a heavy sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger and turned towards Tyrion, kneeling slightly so he could be at eye level with his brother. A difficult thing to do in a full suit of armor like this, but he managed well enough. “Be careful, brother.” He shook his head as he regarded his younger brother.

He didn’t know what it was about Tyrion, but he attracted disaster wherever he went. Tyrion was the most soft and law-abiding person he knew, but there was a naïve part of the dwarf that thought he could rescue everyone if he just showed them care.

He tells him he’s stupid and Tyrion shot him a grin that took Jaime back to when they were young boys, young and stupid. Tyrion’s eyes glistened in the moonlight whilst his hair was like a shadow, hiding him from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms.

Even though Tyrion was distant, and this might very well be the last time Jaime was to look upon his brother like this, he knew somehow, that Tyrion would always be there.

Tyrion tended to watch over Jaime like a hawk. The idea of never seeing him or the Stark girl again, that one precious jewel of peace in Tyrion’s otherwise hellish life would kill him, but for now, he settled to envelope his brother in an awkward hug.

Jaime swallowed hard past the lump in his throat. It was time. The time he knew would come sooner or later but dreaded. He had to say goodbye to the only person that he felt cared, to the only person that he felt he could truly be himself around besides _her_.

“You care for her. You love your wife. Do not even think of lying to me, brother. It’s in your eyes.” Jaime did not know what compelled him to spout these words that tumbled unchecked from his lips as he reluctantly relinquished his hold on Tyrion, wincing at the stiffness in his joints from his armor as he straightened his posture and rose to his full height. He was barely aware of Cersei’s maester coming to stand next to him. He flinched and instinctively curled his arm around his middle and stepped away.

“I…” Tyrion’s face fell as his voice trailed off in hesitation. He mutely nodded and turned away. “Stay safe, Jaime. I pray to the gods that we’ll meet one another again.”

Jaime nodded and bit the wall of his cheek as he turned to Brienne, who was watching the pair of brothers with an inquisitive sheen in her brilliant sky blue orbs.

He ached whenever Brienne looked at him this way, her eyes holding total hurt and confusion in this manner. Jaime watched her lips part open slightly to speak to him, but when she attempted to find her voice, he was met with naught but an awkward silence.

Brienne of Tarth was a unique woman who sought out and brought out the good in others, even perhaps, and especially when said person could not see it for themselves.

She tried so hard to do well. She worked hard. The young female knight fought for literally every single step, even if it wasn’t always in the right direction. Brienne wanted to fly, and now she was soaring, but that did not stop Jaime’s feelings. He was afraid.

He was afraid that she would crash, and that he would have to watch it happen to her, just as Tyrion was forced to watch it happen to his wife, who, for all intents and purposes as far as Jaime knew, was already dead at the hand of the Bolton family.

Jaime ached to think that there was no way for him to help Brienne if she did. It became almost an immediate source of guilt for him as he watched the silhouettes of their horses fade away into the infinite blackness under the cover of a cloudy night.

He hated this. If he had no place anymore in Brienne’s life, and Tyrion’s, then why did he want to be near them so much? Was it simply to escape Cersei’s toxicity? Was that it? Was it to pursue that which he knew that he would never have, simply because it was appealing and new and delicious to him and he craved it more than spiced old wine?

If Brienne noticed, Jaime was scared of what she thought of him. He had never been heartbroken before, preferring to keep all women but Cersei at arm’s length for all his life. For that, sometimes, he was glad he knew that she would not. They could never be together, not in the way that he truly wanted. That was probably a good thing, he mused bitterly, his fingers of his one remaining hand curling into a tight fist over his sword’s hilt. What would she think of him if he were to abandon Cersei and join his brother?

That was what scared him the most, Jamie knew it. For just a split second, he was wondering if it was better that they do not meet at all, that he flee. Maybe it would be better for Brienne of Tarth if he let her fade away from his life, back out of it like she had never been there, to pretend she had never existed for him. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he knew that he could not do such a foolish thing. He couldn't let go.

Jamie wondered if Brienne of Tarth growing up had ever read the words he did, the ones a child would never forget, as he had not forgotten at such a young age? 'Kindred spirits.' Or, as he preferred to think of it, a perfect match. Those words made him think of her. Was that the truth or simply his wish? His instinct told him that it was true. But in the same thought, he knew they wouldn't agree. The same thoughts or feelings, but with a different approach, perhaps? He wanted to be there, next to her, to hold her hand, to feel the soft, smooth skin of her palm entwined with his own. To dry her tears if ever she cried. To take the pain and anger he knew that she hid so well from others.

Yet, here he stood, unmoving, even as the shouts of the men echoed and rang in his eardrums. They had discovered Tyrion had escaped, and yet, he did not move, his mind preoccupied with thoughts of tomorrow. To develop an unattainable desire was not wise, this he knew. He knew it the minute he'd helped her out of that fucking bear pit, this was a dangerous game he was playing, and it would be better for both parties if he quit it. But the ache wouldn't fade, and thoughts of her refused to leave his mind.

Like it or not, as he stayed up late into the early hours of the morning ruminating over the swirling vortex of confused emotions and thoughts running through his mind, he knew that he was smitten with Brienne of fucking Tarth and did not know what to do.

 _By the Light of the Seven help me_ , he thought, anguished.

But as usual, no one listened.


	21. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So I have no idea how long it would take Tyrion and co. to get from King's Landing to Winterfell on horseback, so I'm just going to assume that there's been a bit of a time jump and hopefully can progress the story forward so he can be reunited with his wife and their relationship can continue to grow and expand lol.

** Sansa **

The silence of the hallways that Sansa could once practically walk blindfolded and backwards if you asked that of her felt eerie now and set a chill upon her cold bones. Winterfell's eerie silence gnawed at Sansa’s insides, hanging in the air like the suspended moment before a falling glass shatters on the ground. The silence was like a gaping void, needing to be filled with sounds, words, anything, but to listen to the deafening sound of nothing. For there was nothing that could truly describe nothing, now, was there? No. There wasn't. At least if Lord Tyrion were here, they would no doubt be conversing, and maybe even expanding upon her list of peoples’ beds to sheep shift.

She stifled a smile at the thought of that, how she wondered if she could even get away with doing it to Ramsay’s bed, or maybe find out where that wench Myranda slept and do it to her. Sansa furrowed her brows into a frown and actively averted the gazes of several of Bolton men, soldiers, all of them, and though she did not look upon them, she could feel their hardened stares burning holes in the back of her skull like hot branding irons for cattle.

Sansa faltered in her footing as the strange scent of pine and old spiced wine filled her nostrils, and with it her brain flooded with pictures of Tyrion. Her husband’s face just as handsome as she had remembered it, his cobalt blue eyes twinkling mischievously with laughter and his teeth glistening whenever he smiled, which he seemed to do more so around her. She did not know how long she had remained within Winterfell’s walls, feeling utterly alone, and it felt as though all Sansa had left of Tyrion was her wedding ring and the occasional fleeting memory. But she had lost the sound of his smooth languid voice and the touch of his hand upon hers. Her chest ached as she thought of what she had lost, and no one, especially not Ramsay, the bastard, could replace him.

And no one ever could. Sansa swallowed heavily past the lump in her throat and intertwined her fingers together and continued her walk, not really sure where she was going. It lingered in the air, thick and heavy, like a blanket. Wherever Sansa moved, that silence followed, always watching never fading. Her own, personal dark shadow.

She paused, wondering if it would do her any good to visit the library. Reading was like an escape from reality for her whenever she could not sleep, which was increasingly often these days. Whenever she would pick up a book and start reading, she would become so engrossed into it that Sansa would quite forget any of her surroundings. Her imagination takes over and she was free to fantasize about whatever she wanted without worrying that people will judge her for reading of knights and dragons. It's like she could create a little world in her mind and imagine what the characters would look like and how they act. She thought it crazy how much something as casual as reading can leave such an impact on you. Her mind made up, she turned on her heel towards the left and headed down the stairwell, intent on visiting the library and finding something to read.

A few of the serving wenches threw her sympathetic pitiful glances, all except the one from earlier, Myranda, who seemed to hate Sansa for reasons she did not know, but she wanted or needed not their pity or a shoulder to cry upon. She wanted a friend, someone who would help her escape from this place, and for Tyrion to come.

Sansa knew she had wanted to leave from the moment her boot had alit from Littlefinger's horse. She wanted to plead with Lord Baelish to turn around. But he hadn't, and she had stupidly agreed, thinking it to be the only way to save Lord Tyrion’s life, so, for better or worse, here, she was. The silence continued to be poisonous to Sansa in its nothingness, cruelly underscoring just how vapid the conversations around her had become, of which Sansa had only caught snippets of. The silence was eerily unnatural, like a dawn devoid of birdsong. It clung to Sansa like a poisonous cloud that could at any moment choke the life from her lungs, though not that you would find her complaining. It seeped into her every pore, like a poison that slowly paralyzed the young noblewoman from either speech or movement. When all she wanted to do was run.

Just flee the place and make for the woods to try to find Tyrion.

To see how far she would get before Bolton would send his hounds after her. Bereft of any wind, the leaves outside, what few of them were left on the barren dead trees of winter hung limp until they fell of their own accord, and there was no whispering or rustling. It was as if nature herself conspired to keep Sansa in the dark, not daring to whisper into the shell of her ear the reassurance she so desperately craved in this foreign place. Then hurried footsteps as she lingered outside of the mess hall and the squeak of the wide pair of double oak door's hinges gave a horrible creaking noise, alerting Sansa to another presence in the room, and brought her heart racing as fast as an arrow that had been fired from a crossbow.

At that mental image, she felt a tremor of fear go down her spine, for it had not felt like all that long ago that she had stared Death in the face, staring at the loaded tip of an arrow, that crossbow held by none other than King Joffrey, right before that childish boy had demanded his king's guard to beat her senseless within an inch of her life. Were it not for his uncle, Tyrion Lannister himself interfering when he had, well…

She might not even be here were it not for her husband.

At the thought of Tyrion, Sansa felt her brow furrow into a frown. Lord Tywin and Cersei had practically guaranteed his safety and she hoped to be seeing him soon.

Of the entire family of wretched lions, Tyrion had been the only one of the Lannisters to treat her with any decency and a modicum of respect, and for that, she cared for him, and hoped to see him again soon, because she could not—would not allow her husband to come to harm on her account, and nor would she allow Ramsay to lay a finger on her when she was already a married woman, and more importantly than that, she knew Ramsay Snow did not seem to be a man capable of treating whomever he married, whether that be her or another woman, with any inkling of kindness and respect.

At least Tyrion, when the time came for them to consummate the marriage whenever he arrived here in Winterfell, she knew that he would be kind to her. Gentle. Understanding. She swallowed back the lump in her throat at the thought of She could acknowledge that much, her hatred and disdain for that entire family aside for right now.

Right now, a brand new problem was staring her directly in the face, and that problem's name was Roose. Sansa swallowed the lump forming in her throat and quickly dipped into a low graceful curtsy. "Milord Bolton, I—I apologize if I have disturbed your work, I—I did not e—expect anyone to be up late at this hour, b—but I could not sleep. I was looking for the—the library a—and got…los," she mumbled, feeling the heat creep to her cheeks as her gaze drifted down towards the man's boots, not wanting to meet Lord Bolton's eyes, for fear of what she might find there.

To her surprise, which admittedly made her fear deepen and raise her hackles in defense, prepared to flee if she must, Lord Bolton broke into a wide, seemingly genuine coy little smile that suggested he knew than she did. Sansa wasn't quite sure if she should be flattered by his smile or unnerved. She had never quite recalled Lord Bolton ever smiling once.

"How does it feel, milady? To be back home?" Lord Roose asked, pulling out a chair at the great table. He was seemingly interested in making conversation, and she could detect not a hint or trace of malice in his deep baritone voice. "I hope that you find your quarters to your liking. It must be strange for you to be in such a foreign place after so long away from home."

Sansa felt her brows knit together in a light scowl and her lips pursed into such a thin line that she was quite certain they probably disappeared.

"This is my home, where I grew up, Lord Bolton. It's…I—I've been looking for the— _oh_." Her voice cracked and faltered as the doors swung open for a second time and the younger Bolton entered the room. Ramsay's blue eyes lifted slightly and met hers, and Sansa inhaled a sharp breath that pained her lungs as she repressed the urge to shiver. She would not give this man the satisfaction of seeing just how much his son unnerved her, and nor would she discuss the intimate details of what he had attempted to do to her back in King's Landing.

She wanted to know if it was true. If he had really hung one of the kitchen wenches for coming to Ramsay stating she was pregnant. A quick glance towards the closed door as the younger Bolton man quietly closed the door to the mess hall quickly confirmed everything that Sansa needed to know. That these men had no intention of letting her leave. She swallowed and looked to him.

When she dared to meet Ramsay's gaze, she felt drawn to those blue eyes yet again, for reasons she could not quite explain. The icy blueness she saw in them generated a feeling like she was being pulled into a frozen lake of emotions, like all the shades of blue that she could think of swirled together. Sansa could tell by Ramsay's body language that he did not like her, or perhaps didn't trust her, maybe a combination of both.

Either way, those flickering azure orbs confirmed her thoughts. She was in serious trouble if she could not think of a way to talk herself out of this situation. Sansa did not fancy being trapped in the mess hall with these two, though she doubted Ramsay would throw himself at her with his father present in the room, but she was not about to test that suspicion. Not so long as she valued keeping her tongue, for she knew if she spoke out against the Boltons, she would likely lose the appendage.

There was a cold burning to Ramsay Bolton's rage. An ice that scared Sansa if she was being honest with herself. She'd seen that look in other men's eyes before, more notably the former King Joffrey Baratheon. It was how she had recognized the growing look of hostility in Ramsay's eyes. It was how men like him and little boy-men like Joffrey showed their hatred, dominance, and imparted fear on those who followed them. Men like Ramsay were easily provoked, Sansa knew. Any provocation, any insult, no matter how big or insignificant, and the man's fuse would blow, and their tempers would ignite like Wildfire, scorching and burning anything in their pathways that stood in the way.

And right now, Sansa Stark was standing in Ramsay Bolton's way.

Ramsay was a violent man. She wasn't stupid, she could tell this was a bastard who derived sick pleasure by beating and torturing anyone smaller and weaker than himself to a pulp if they so much as looked at him the wrong way and it pissed him off to that point where his temper flared, but then, Bolton would use his silver smooth-talking tongue to get out of trouble with anyone bigger or stronger in a better position of power.

Sansa visibly flinched as Ramsay's mouth stretched wide into an unnaturally wide white smile as he laid eyes upon her, and he had moved so fast to stand by her side that the man was practically a blur that she had no time to blink. She felt her lips part slightly agape in a look of shock. The young redhead bit her bottom lip in a slight pout and steeled the muscles in her jaw as she felt Ramsay's lips touch her cheek. All his lips left was a little wet mark, a shallow pool of saliva on Sansa's left cheek.

But when he planted that little kiss there, she felt an incredible heat spread through her limbs and her mind felt a horrible, red, raging buzz. "Milady," he murmured, his voice low and heavy with desire. "How kind of you to visit me when you can’t sleep," he breathed, in a voice that sounded… _excited_. "You did not answer Lord Bolton's question," Ramsay replied, his voice undertaking a rather childlike tone. He was mocking her, speaking to Sansa as though she were twelve years old, not eighteen. "Answer him."

Coming from him, it was not a request. Sansa swallowed and nodded. "Home is familiar," she heard herself saying in a voice that did not quite sound like her own. Her tone in the moment sounded cold and flat. "It is the people who are strange," she retorted, unable to keep that all-too familiar hot fire seed of anger from raging deep within the pit of her stomach, and even Sansa was surprised at the acidity in her tone, the rage.

Sansa wasn't sure if she should be relieved at Ramsay's smile as it widened even more, if such a thing was possible. She fought back the urge to scrunch her nose in disgust and make a face. Oh, how everything about this situation was so _horribly_ _awkward_! She wanted nothing more than to offer the men a polite little curtsy and flee, but she could tell by that indignant look in Ramsay's eyes, he had no intentions of letting her leave. At least not yet. No, she was trapped here. With _him_. Was there no end to this insufferable torment? Were the gods really this cruel that they would leave her fate in the hands of his man? Apparently, they were, and Sansa could not help cursing them.

It seemed an eternity before Ramsay spoke again. "You are lost?"

"Mmm?" Sansa blinked once or twice, confused by the man's words. And then she remembered. "O—oh," she stammered, feeling the heat creep to her cheeks. "I—I was just looking for the—the library, milord. I um…I got lost," she confessed, suddenly wishing that a hole would open up in the floor beneath her feet and swallow her whole and not let her re-emerge until Lord Roose and Ramsay had well and gone, leaving her.

Ramsay let a dark little chuckle escape his lips and something akin to amusement seemed to ignite a light in the Bolton man's blue eyes. "You are… _lost_ ," he said slowly, letting the words roll off his fluid tongue. "This is your home, Sansa. How can you be lost?" Sansa watched out of the corner of her eyes as she turned away, clutching herself and shrinking into her gown as much as she could for warmth, shivering and clenching her jaw. The young woman could not help but notice how startled Ramsay looked, as though the admission had caught him off guard. "You like to read," he breathed, lowering his voice an octave. Sansa flinched as she heard Roose's footsteps fade as he politely excused himself. "Might I have the pleasure of escorting you to the library, then?"

Ramsay held out his arm and offered her that dazzlingly charming smile that Sansa knew might once have made her swoon, back when she was naïve and younger, but not anymore. After spending so long in the company of the Lannisters, she had matured and learned much of the world and the vicious ways of men. She knew Ramsay had but one thing on his mind when it came to her and that was what rested between her legs. Sansa bit her bottom lip in a slight pout, her hand outstretched as she hesitated, not wanting at all to take the man’s arm, considering what he had done to her back in King’s Landing, but seeing no other alternative, judging by that hungry look in the man's icy blue eyes.

She was not going to go to the library alone unescorted, it seemed.

Sansa drew in a sharp breath that pained her lungs as she intertwined her arm around his strong arm, feeling revolted she was _touching_ him. A quick glance upward, having to crane her neck to do it as Ramsay was at least a few heads taller than she was, she could see the smug look of triumph in the man's icy blue eyes as he escorted her at a leisurely pace to the library. A pace that felt like it crawled at its petty pace, and then she realized that he was parading her around her own home, showing her off.

Like she was nothing but a prize that he had won, and her made sure keep her left hand over top his, so that the other Bolton men and men at arms could see the brilliant yellow gold of the simple but elegant ring that Tyrion had given her. Sansa could not help the shudder of revulsion that travelled down her spine, though she made a point to not let her disgust show in her eyes. If she were disgusted, Sansa feared that she could not help it, given the dire nature of her current predicament that in little less than two days' time now, she would be wed to the Bastard of Bolton himself. _Gods…_ Disgust. It was an emotion all men and women felt, Sansa knew this. She had thought once upon a time that her disgust could climb no higher than for the vain pig of a boy man-child that was Joffrey Baratheon, but those feelings she had felt for King's Landing's boy-king was nothing— _nothing_ —compared to what she felt for the man holding her arm now.

_What disgusts you, Ramsay?_ Sansa mused, studying the young twenty-two year old out of the corner of her eye, carefully gauging his reactions.

Every so often, he would shoot her these longing glances, and get that predatory look in those cobalt blue eyes before quickly averting his gaze.

_Why do you not listen to that little voice of repulsion in your head, Bastard?_ Sansa though, feeling surprised that her pure curiosity was overwhelming her fear as they continued through the dank dimly lit corridor towards the library _. If even you have one, maybe, just maybe, it is there for a reason, Lord Bolton. So, tell me, my bastard, what makes your skin crawl? Does anything repulse you? Are you afraid of the dark? Is that why there are so many lit torches along the way to the library? What is repellant to you, Bolton? Do you enjoy it, and if you do, why?_

All of these questions and more were swirling around in Sansa's tired head, and she flinched, pinching the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, feeling the beginnings of a splitting headache coming on. "Are you well, Lady Sansa?" came Ramsay's voice, still sounding cold and distant to her, and when she lifted her head blearily to gaze at her intended, her insides curdled like milk with lemon. Were he a kind man, then Sansa would have perhaps been overjoyed to marry Ramsay, for there was no denying that he was a handsome man, but he revolted her.

Sansa knew the type of man Ramsay was. A beast, a monster, evil. She liked to think that no detail missed her eye, ever, and even now as they continued their stroll, at long last nearing the library, Sansa heard herself exhale through her nose, though the incredible tension in her shoulders did not leave her body. She figured her body would not be able to relax until Ramsay left her alone in solitude.

The very sight of Ramsay made Sansa sick from the ends of her red hair to the nails on her delicate toes. She considered herself not the type to hate easily, but she knew evil when she saw it. She _knew_. Sansa blinked, not realizing he had asked the question again. "I said," he repeated, though with a slight tone of annoyance to his voice, losing that charming tone from before, his voice growing clipped and hard, "are you feeling quite well, milady?" Sansa nodded mutely, afraid that if she opened her mouth to speak that she might vomit. Her stomach gave a painful lurch of fright as she felt his strong hand come up to grip her left hand, turning her palm over in his hands, studying the plain yellow gold ring that she wore on her ring finger. "Your fingers are like ice, milady. Allow me to warm them…"

She let out a hiss, feeling the bile coating the back of her throat, as he took both her hands in his and brought them to his lips for a surprisingly gentle kiss. Sansa cared not what he thought of her anymore. Letting out a tiny squeak of fear, she let out a gasp of surprise as she felt her hand instinctively pull away from Ramsay's ironclad grip, and his smile faltered. Sansa immediately dropped her gaze, not wanting to see the wrath in the man's glacier blue eyes and felt a lock of auburn hair drift in front of her face, effectively shielding her gaze from her future betrothed's stare.

When at last, Sansa determined that she could no longer hide from Ramsay any further, she lifted her chin, hating the slight tremble in it, for she was afraid of what she would find in his eyes. Ramsay had turned away from her for a moment, but when he finally turned back around, Sansa desperately wished the man would have kept his gaze on the wall. Deliberation was over. He had judged her already and in his blue eyes Sansa only saw cool hatred. He'd had that same look towards her earlier.

"In the…in the courtyard," Sansa whispered, her voice barely above a whisper. Unfortunately for her, Ramsay Bolton's ears were better than any of his hounds, and she watched, horrified, as his ears perked up at the sound.

His head whiplashed sharply up, and his blue eyes narrowed to slits. Sansa swallowed, feeling her breath catch in her throat. A hateful disdain lingered on his face, creating lines upon his otherwise smooth forehead and a deep groove near his mouth that did not flatter his handsome features, but it was more than that. There was a tenseness he wasn't even trying to mask. She backed away, fumbling for the doorknob of Winterfell's study. Nothing about this was making any sense to her.

Not his curling fists or the anger that radiated from his pale skin. Those cobalt blue eyes of his were like a knife in poor Sansa's ribs, the sharp point digging even deeper.

There was a horrible emptiness in his eyes, like a black void of sorts, but not in any kind of vulnerable sense. Uncomfortable with this void, Ramsay had filled it with an emotion he was more at ease with—raw anger, and this anger was directed towards her. The unmoving glacier blue gaze was accompanied by deliberate slow breathing, like he was fighting something back within and he was losing.

"Milord Bolton, i—if you will please e—excuse me, you seem…busy. I can walk myself to the library on my own, thank you," she mumbled, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks. Sansa actively averted the man's gaze, wildly looking to the left and right for any means of escape.

And then she remembered what she had been looking for all along.

Dipping her head in acknowledgement, she turned on the heel of her boot and made to turn her back on Ramsay to retreat to the safety of the library, where at least the door had a lock, when a strong hand caught her wrist and gave a rather hard and violent squeeze, hard enough to break it if he was of a mind to.

Letting out a pained gasp, she inhaled sharply and she wasn't even aware she was holding in her breath until she felt herself exhale a shaking, pained breath as Ramsay cupped her chin in his hand, tilting her head slightly to the right, forcing the young Lady of Winterfell to meet his stony, cold gaze.

There was no warmth there that she could see. Sansa flinched and shirked back slightly from his touch as the pad of the man's thumb and forefinger delicately stroked her cheek, with almost a surprising tenderness that she was not quite sure what to make of it. "What's your rush, little dove?" Ramsay crooned, sounding offended. "I did promise to show you to the library, but you only just got here…"

Sansa let out a tiny moan of pain as his fingers curled into a protective fist over her wrist and she felt her body being propelled backwards, until her back was pressed against the cold gray stone wall of the corridor. "I…I should go, milord, for the—the hour is late, and you seem…" But her voice trailed off as she felt her chin being tilted upward again as he cupped her chin in his hand and once again forced to look upon him.

Sansa couldn't bring herself to complete her sentence. Ramsay, however, had narrowed his eyes in intrigue and seemed to have other ideas in mind for the young redhead. His grip tightened and she could briefly smell the wine on his breath. The Bastard had been drinking. "Hmm?" he encouraged, sounding more amused than anything. "I seem _what_ , Sansa? You can talk to me now. Don't be shy. You're to be my _wife_ soon, after all, little dove. We mustn't keep _secrets_ from each other." His tone still carried that inflection of slight mocking in it.

Sansa swallowed nervously, fighting back her urge to scream, for she knew that if she did, Ramsay would hit her…or worse. Sansa blinked back briny tears, not wanting to think of what 'worse' would mean for her if she were to make a scene here and now with the man who was to be her husband. It would likely not bode well for her at all. And besides, those other men—Bolton soldiers—they obeyed the commands of their liege, and she knew that she could not look to those men for help.

She inhaled sharply as she felt his strong hand drifted to her hip, settling there and pulled her closer to him, so that she was resting against his lean, firm, and surprisingly warm chest that was chiseled to perfection. Sansa breathed out slowly, willing the tension in her body to leave her, though it remained firmly put, refusing to leave until _he_ was gone. "What…" Sansa bit her bottom lip, feeling how chapped it was and caring not. "Our union. Do you even want this for yourself, milord? Has anyone asked _you_? What is it that _you_ want?" she asked softly. There was no malice in her question.

It was a genuine, honest inquiry. What he wanted of her, she needed to know. She wasn't quite certain where that little outburst had come from, but she knew the moment the words escaped from her lips that her words had hit their mark, and he looked stunned, and she felt his grip on her wrist slacken.

Sansa watched, stunned, as he took a few faltering steps backward. She took advantage of the opportunity to bolt, heading towards the library, not caring what his answer to the question that she had asked would be. The man was a beast if ever there was one. Such a monster would never be able to be tamed, this much Sansa Stark knew to be a certainty. Sansa hesitated just for a fraction of a second, risking one glance over her shoulder as she made for the library's entrance, surprised to see Ramsay staring after her, his blue eyes wide and round with disbelief and awe, as though he could not believe what he had heard. Perhaps that had been the first time someone had asked such a question of him. Something about the man's blue eyes gave her pause.

How they were…almost melancholic.

_So, the monster feels after all, how endearing_ , Sansa thought meanly, unable to keep the swirling vortex of evil black putrid yet sweet blissful thoughts of Ramsay suffering in the forefront of her mind, and she quickly set her face to 'perfect impassiveness,' and turned away, showing Ramsay she was not afraid.

Which was a bold-faced lie. Inside, she was terrified of the man that was to be her husband in just a few days' time, but she could not show it.

She was a Wolf of Winterfell, and wolves were not cowards, nor was she. Sansa turned away and headed for the door, a hand outstretched, reaching towards the knob as though it was her final lifeline, that precious pathway to sanctuary, which in a way, Sansa supposed that this was. Sansa was surprised when Lord Bolton asked of her a question that she did not expect. "You are married to the Lannisters' freak Imp, were you not, milady?" Now, Ramsay merely sounded curious. "Did you…enjoy it? Did he…satisfy you?" There was a low purr to his voice, seductive and husky, as the realization of what he was asking hit Sansa.

She startled, her hand fumbling as it faltered trying to grab the door. She knew what Ramsay was doing. He was stalling her to keep her here. Still, something about his tone compelled Sansa to answer. "More than…yes." _More than you ever could, you beast,_ she thought angrily. But that little thought, she dared not speak aloud, or _else_ … Sansa didn't want to know what 'or else' meant in this case. Presumably, nothing good. Sansa's hand gripped onto the doorknob, deciding it would be in everyone's best interest if she were to calmly retreat from the situation before things escalated and got beyond her measure of control. It wouldn't do to draw attention to herself. Not now, like… _this_.

Sansa let out an understated sigh and made to enter into the library when the harsh bark of Ramsay Bolton's voice rendered her immobile.

"Do not walk away from your future husband, woman," Ramsay snarled. _He's beginning to sound like his old self_ , Sansa thought angrily, her jaw muscles clenching rooted shut and a muscle behind her eyelid twitching. Gone was the charm whenever he was around Lord Roose Bolton, or Lord Baelish, or any man with an authority of power over Ramsay. Ramsay continued, his voice growing harder and clipped. "You have not been dismissed, Lady Sansa. Do you even know to whom you're speaking, girl?" he growled, breathing in a sharp breath that seemed to suck all the rest of the air in the corridor along with it.

Sansa couldn't breathe. Suddenly, she could feel the all-too familiar hot spark of anger welling deep within the pits of her stomach, as it had been whenever she'd been forced to endure Joffrey's company during the final days of his miserable existence, and she bit back her tongue in an effort to quell to several dozen remarks that were swirling around in her exhausted head, and before she could stop herself, the words just…poured out.

"I know _exactly_ who you are, Lord Bolton," her voice steel as she taunted the young lord Bolton, that bastard man, through gritted teeth, as she balled her hands into fists by her side, feeling the muscles in her back go rigid and tense. "You, Ramsay Bolton, are a miserable maggot, a whining, whimpering weasel who seeks nothing but death at the hands of yourself and your father's approval. You're _weak_. You are _nothing_ , Snow."

Sansa knew the minute those words tumbled out of her mouth, resonating in the air like a deathly poison, that they'd hit their mark, for Ramsay Bolton was clearly a man who was not used to having someone—let alone a woman, no doubt—speak back to him as she had. She whirled around and bolted for the door, wrenching it open violently with full intent to slam the door in the dark-haired bastard’s face and lock it and as a result of how her mind reeled, she did not hear the footfalls shuffling behind her. She was too busy fumbling for a nearby torch when a pair of strong hands pushed her into the wall in front of her—Ramsay's hands. It stung and sent swells of pain throughout her entire body. His chin rested upon her shoulder, and he breathed into his ear.

"You're rejecting me," Ramsay breathed, whispering it into the shell of her ear, causing a wash of cold to travel down her spine towards her toes. "Unfortunately for you, your little act of defiance has…piqued my interest," he growled, and it was only when he shifted, pressing his body further into hers that she felt the back of her leg grind against his growing hardness. "I've taken an interest in you, sweet Sansa, and I always get what I want in the end. No one's ever talked back to me as you have, my love," he sneered. "I think I like you, and for that, I promise you, you will enjoy what comes next." That was when Ramsay's lips clamped down onto her right ear. They were light at first, and then the bastard bit down harder. Sansa stifled a moan and squirmed against the wall, which only encouraged Ramsay to behave rougher, goading that monster that dwelt within.

Bolton bit down harder, eliciting a sharp cry of pain from Sansa. The teeth turned into a tongue, sliding over the rim of Sansa's ear, causing her to cry out. She felt her entire body begin to tremble beneath his touch. His two hands slid down her sides and landed on her waist, gripping almost painfully tight. Sansa blinked back briny tears, not knowing what to do. "You asked me what I want," he breathed, his speech slightly slurred as he whispered it into the girl's ear. "I want…" _You_ , is what he wanted to say. _To feel you inside of me, screaming my fucking name for the whole goddamn North to hear. I want you._ _Naked, ravaged, afraid of me. To see you bleeding. You_. "You know what it is that I want," he growled, one of his hands drifted upwards and tugging on her gown.

White knuckles from clenching her fists too hard, and gritted teeth from the effort to remain silent, her rigid form exuded an animosity that was like poison—burning, slicing, and potent. Sansa's already pale face was absolutely white with rage and shock at what he was demanding of her, and when Ramsay Bolton reached up a hand to brush back a lock of red hair over her shoulder, Sansa Stark swung back and mentally snapped.

"N—no l—let go of me, you—you horse’s ass!” she screamed. “How _dare_ you!" Sansa shouted, ducking underneath Ramsay's arm and turning on the heel of her boot, taking a few faltering steps away from her intended, clutching at the skirts of her dress defensively, as if she thought that would prevent the Bastard of Bolton from whatever it was he was about to do next, and what that would be, even she didn't want to think of it, though she could tell by the wild unhinged look in those blue eyes of Bolton's that the only thought in his mind was of ravaging her. Raping her, taking her over and over again until there was nothing left. Ramsay seemed to be rendered speechless as she shoved him backward, poking a finger in his chest as he advanced upon the girl.

Like a wolf stalking its prey. He had not anticipated the girl to be so strong, and Sansa knew as he looked at her, that he could not find words.

"You might be a lord, and I a lady, you might have control over my family's home and our lands, but you must be completely _insane_ to think I would do any such thing, no matter what you think of me. I am still married to Tyrion, Ramsay. I would rather _die_ than ever willingly lay with you!" Sansa screamed, gritting her teeth in anger. The girl swallowed hard past the lump forming in her throat as he approached her once more, and this time, Ramsay did not restrain himself. Slamming his hand into the wall behind Sansa's head, he grabbed her jaw violently and forced her to look him dead center in the eyes. Sansa swallowed hard as she looked into the Bastard's eyes, how Ramsay's wide open eyes reflected everything and yet, saw nothing.

Behind them was something more intense than normal thought and his clenched two-day stubble on his jaw was not a good sign. Sansa had been hoping to get through this little stroll to the library without incident. Actually, she wasn't entirely sure what she had been hoping for, perhaps not outright forgiveness for whatever it was she had done to upset him prior to this, but the beginnings of a tentative understanding.

They were, after all, due to be married in a few weeks, though Ramsay had made it explicitly clear that he wanted Lord Tyrion to be here to watch the wedding ceremony.

_He’s planning something_ , Sansa thought wildly. _He means to hurt Tyrion!_

Now, however, Sansa simply hoped that he would let her go without giving Ramsay a reason to hate her all the more, but she knew that as she looked into the man's eyes, those blue eyes holding total anger, it hurt. The way his blue eyes squinted when Sansa defiantly lifted her chin and glowered at Ramsay reminded the girl of a pit viper's slit-like pupils. She gulped nervously. A burning animosity was developing in those cobalt eyes of his, and Sansa could tell she was likely the root cause of his problem. And, if judging by the hungry look in his eyes, Sansa was about to find herself in a spot of trouble she wasn't quite sure she'd get out of.

Very. Deep. Trouble.


	22. Ramsay

** Ramsay **

He’d been here before. Several times, and each time seemed to stretch on forever into eternity. The nightmare was more of a night terror because it felt as though Ramsay might die from the pain in his brain as he stared into the eyes of the Beast. The one that he could not tame. He was desperately trying to wake up, screaming for help, for the wild dog to heel, but it would not, and nobody came for him. The thing was massive, black in color, fangs bared and foaming at the mouth, ravenous, starving, lunged, and he awoke, same as always with a start, beads of sweat forming on his brow.

“Seven fucking hells!” Ramsay cursed, growling it through gritted teeth. He panted and gasped for air, though no benefit except for dizziness came to him. Glancing down and removing his feet, where his muddied boots had left traces of dirt upon the long rectangular wooden table in Winterfell’s library as he had leaned back in his chair upon dozing off, his feet propped up on the wooden table, mud splatters leaving brown markings near the several red X’s, the Boltons’ plans for laying waste to Stannis Baratheon’s fucking armies visible for anyone to see who dared to look upon the map.

He groaned, running his tongue along his upper teeth as he grabbed hold of the tin flagon of water and cupped some water into his hands, splashing the frigid liquid across his face. The relief was unimaginable for a second. Ramsay let out a haggard grown and felt the burning on his cheeks and forehead subside. The beads of water dripped alongside his growing stubble. Ramsay winced, thinking that he would need to shave soon. He valued being clean shaven. It was better for the women in his life that way.

Reek used to do it. At the thought of his pet plaything, Ramsay furrowed his brows into a frown. Sansa Stark had not taken the revelation that Theon was still alive as well as he would have hoped. However, in the span of the few weeks the girl had been with them already, the Stark woman had vested a great interest in ensuring the Imp arrived to Winterfell save and unharmed, and would barely even glance Ramsay’s way if she could help it. Ramsay scoffed and resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he forced himself to his feet and headed towards the mess hall, madly in need of water to quell the burning fires in his throat.

His ears perked up as he heard a noise, his hearing better than that of any one of his hounds and his nostrils flared as the scent of honeysuckle and lavender wafted through his nostrils.

It was _her_. To avoid the girl spotting him, he ducked behind a pillar and carefully poked his head out. Anything to get a glimpse of Lady Stark. He drew in a sharp breath that pained his lungs as his gaze lingered on her backside, her figure quite eye-catching in a purple silk gown with matching purple coreset, the train of her dress a foot long and seemed to glide behind her whenever she walked down the corridor. It took him a moment to realize what he was smelling was her hair, and his cobalt fiery eyes traveled upwards and settled on Sansa’s red hair.

“Please! I need to...oh, e—excuse me!” Ramsay bit the inside of his cheek, figuring the girl was calling out to a passing maid or perhaps one of the hearth keeps who had swiftly departed, unable to take notice of Sansa Stark. He heard her sigh in disappointment, and her heels about to return to her chamber, but halted in their movements.

Sansa might have seen the slight movement from Ramsay when he had moved behind the stone pillar, might be struck with curiosity. _Don’t_.

Ramsay prayed as if the gods would have the grace to hear the young man’s plea. He could hear the soft susurration of the young woman’s footfalls, the heels of her boots reverberating on the bricked floor, drawing even closer and closer. _Don’t_. He swallowed and stepped back, anticipating what was to come next. And he was right.

The aching in his skull ebbed and flowed like a cold tide, yet the pain was always there. He understood at once why they called it a hangover, for it felt as if the blackest of clouds were over his head with no intention of clearing until the morrow. Prince Ramsay watched as the girl gingerly pushed open the doors to the mess hall and went inside. He furrowed his brows into a frown.

How the smell of the wine earlier this evening had been almost intoxicating, yet right now, it only added to his nausea. His brain felt like it would swell beyond the capacity of his skull and now his dehydration was entirely too much to ignore. He needed water. He had ventured down from the library with intent of heading to the mess hall in search of a flagon of water.

Normally, he’d ask one of the serving girls or Reek to bring him a flagon, but he wanted to clear his head as it was. For some insane, maddening reason that was beyond Ramsay’s ability to comprehend, he’d not been able to stop thinking of Sansa Stark of Winterfell. He had not expected nor anticipated to find her in the mess hall too, the second time that he had run into the young woman on her own alone.

Surely, it was fate. The gods were kind to him, were they not? He was blessed.

He had fully intended to take the Stark woman for himself tonight, just what he needed to cease the fire in his loins. Ramsay had not anticipated the reaction she would have as he had escorted her to the library, not intending to let her linger there. He knew this woman’s game, how she played it. Well… Sansa would not win. And now, it would appear that Sansa Stark had bested him, for this time, it was _he_ who was a complete loss for words, much less able to form a cohesive thought. Ramsay Bolton stared at his future bride, not able to form any coherent words as to what this woman had just done.

 _She_ had to be the insane one, _not_ him. To put it rather bluntly, Ramsay had never received such a response before.

In fact, he doubted that, given his status as a young lord, no one had ever rejected him. He was utterly shocked at her outburst.

He could tell that Sansa did not know what to do, given that he had literally pinned her against the wall near the exit.

Ramsay watched, mesmerized, as he stared at Sansa Stark. The red of her hair was the first thing he saw, how her hair cascaded in loose curls, the tips of it ending at her breasts. Ramsay loved to watch her hair as it moved along with the girl’s movements, but it was not the best thing about Stark. It fell in ringlets about her pale skin, so striking that it was the only thing anyone in this godforsaken castle ever seemed to comment on.

But Ramsay barely noticed it. He could drink in her words like a strong wine and enjoy feeling tipsy. He watched the girl like she had the stars in her hands and soft petals at her feet. He wanted nothing more than to wrap her in his arms and never let Sansa go. But first things first, Ramsay needed to know which one she intended to marry. _Him_.

Or she would somehow find a sneaky way to stay married to Tyrion fucking Lannister, and Ramsay prayed it would be him, and his nerves were so bad at asking the one question that plagued his mind that he practically shook at the very thought. She was a beauty, there was no point in trying to deny that. Everything about the girl was beautiful. Her purple gown eye catching to her figure, and her hair highlighted her pretty features.

 _A much better sight than Myranda_ , he thought, and felt his lips curl into a sneer, and that was when he heard himself speak. "How kind of you to visit me in my...lonliness, Lady Sansa."

Sansa pursed her lips and made a quick scan of him. For a moment, he felt conscious, and decided to convince himself that he neither looked nor smelled awful, though in reality, he probably did. “I—I was lost, milord. F—Forgive me, Ramsay, please.” Her voice escaped her in almost a whisper. “Don’t…” Sansa felt her lips part open slightly in shock as Ramsay closed off the gap of space between the two of them, grabbing the candelabra nearest him on a little side table, and he watched as the girl turned her head to the side as he unceremoniously shoved the Stark woman up against the side wall. Sansa’s eyes were squeezed tightly shut. No doubt she was blinded by the light, which he had deliberately thrust into her face, but also fearful of what was going to become of her here, trapped alone in the estate’s library with only Ramsay for her company.

Ramsay smiled maliciously, satisfied at her obvious discomfort. _Good_. She ought to be scared. He felt Sansa flinch as the candle burned dangerously close to her skin, but she barely moved because of his iron grip. She had surprisingly supple flesh for a woman well past her bloom. Sighing exasperatedly, he gave a weary, sideways glance at the map still sprawled about the entire half of the table. As much as he enjoyed making his women suffer, he was also an impatient man, and he wanted to get this over and done with. He would discover for himself her answer of whom she wished to marry and if she chose to stay married to the fucking little cretinous dwarf that was barely even half of a man and a foot shorter than Sansa was, he would punish her however he saw fit and then be done with the girl and able to move on with life. She was guilty of driving him insane.

Of that much, he was certain. Lowering the light in his hand, he turned his gaze lazily back towards the beauty in front of him, and nearly dropped the candle. Her two youthful, almond shaped eyes stared back at him, widening in shock as he stared right back. Ramsay blinked and Ramsay could feel his throat beginning to tighten and constrict. The Stark woman was breathing heavily, her bosom rising and falling, and he could feel her trembling beneath his ironclad grip. She wasn’t much in terms of height; her delicate little nose barely reached the top of his shoulders. The girl reminded Ramsay of a bird in a cage, a restless creature teeming with life.

It was those eyes…they had seemingly ensnared Ramsay. He’d been about to start his speech, the usual nonsense where he would threaten her, chastise the girl for walking about the castle un-escorted at night, force her to do something, just to frighten her. Ramsay had been expecting to see fear in those bright azure eyes, but instead, what he found within her irises was amazement.

Perhaps even curiosity. Not the way that countless debutantes looked fascinated when they stared at him in court. Not the way the dukes and marquis’ looked at him whenever he journeyed outside of Winterfell and dipped in society a little, for reputation’s sake.

No. The girl looked at him as if he were some odd, foreign creature that she had discovered, not a man of noble society. Sansa was eyeing him as if he were some odd, foreign creature that she had just discovered, not a young lord. Any other young woman would have looked away, blushing with embarrassment or at least fear, but this woman’s gaze was so steady and unyielding. It was as if she knew exactly what lay beyond his own gaze, and yet she did not flinch at whatever she saw within. It was unsettling to say the least.

This Stark girl, whoever she was, was most peculiar. Not that Ramsay really gave this a second thought. He brushed aside this surprisingly nuanced observation just as quickly as it had first entered his mind and turned his attention back to the woman standing in front of him. She really was a beauty. Ramsay tightened his grip ever so slightly and hardened his gaze.

She no doubt got his intended message, that she was not going anywhere he did not want her to, because the curiosity which seemed to radiate from her eyes a minute ago quickly dissipated, and was replaced by that of bland resignation and a lifeless acceptance. Ramsay felt himself relax, and yet oddly disappointed at her change of expression, although Ramsay could not understand why.

Ramsay marveled at how she could be so timid at the sight of him, how much to more when he would finally take her for himself. “Lost?” he chuckled darkly. “This is your home. How can you be lost, milady?” Ramsay watched the girl breathed in nervously and licked her lips to moisten them, and just that simple gesture was enough to cause a ravaging heat to overwhelm him between his legs, and he practically growled with the effort to restrain himself.

They were so close now, and to him she was even more beautiful up close. When Sansa spoke, her voice was timid, meek. “I apologize. I’m sorry to have bothered you, milord. You seem…” Sansa shifted slightly, recognizing where it was that they were, and did not meet his gaze. “Busy.” Her voice was hoarse and weak. Ramsay noticed the hint of unease on her voice, and moved his hand to cover hers, which was holding onto the edge of the table.

“Your fingers are like ice, Lady Sansa.” He was calm, resolute, and none of them could explain the peace starting to wallow in his soul. He shifted her weight and rose her slightly so she was resting on top of the table, and he could have sworn he heard the Stark girl whimper a little as he pinned his hands on top of her thigh, preventing her escaping, and steadily rested the piece just above the picture of Winterfell. When the paperweight emptied her hand, his fingers took over, intertwining hers with a shaking delight. “Let me keep them warm.” He could hear her breaths increase in nervous anticipation. And it abruptly ended when Sansa shook their hands off and violently wrenched her hand away from Ramsay’s, her cheeks spotted with rosy color, her cobalt eyes placid and disturbed. Ramsay looked away in frustration, his now emptied hand forming a clawed fist.

Sansa cleared her throat, and still, with her head facing away from him, turned sharply towards the left, she spoke curtly. “Leave. You forget that I am a married woman. Your advances are and shall always remain unwanted, Ramsay Bolton.”

Ramsay silently seethed, jaw rooted in anger. There was something disgustingly noble about the way the Stark woman was behaving towards him, that Ramsay began to feel unpleasant bitterness at the back of his throat and anger rise within him now. Who in the seven fucking hells did she think she was? A saint? An angel? A gift from God? He stifled a low warning growl at the back of his throat and stared at Sansa, whose gaze remained unabashed and unwavering. Every bit of Ramsay protested.

A breath ago he was almost in heaven, and now, just as soon as it had come, she had killed that feeling that he desired. She trembled at the feel of Ramsay’s face on her hair. She could smell the wine on his breath. Her lips trembled along with her shoulders, the tremors moistening her eyes. “What is your rush, little dove? I did promise to show you to the library, and we just got here, after all. Do you not think we should…take the time to…get to know one another,” Ramsay whispered and inhaled on her hair, stuck his nose on the back of her neck, and slowly paced down from her ear to her shoulder.

To him, she smelled like autumn, and he could not get enough of her scent. Sansa Stark smelled of fern, and wild purple orchids, and periwinkle blossoms. She smelled like dawn and magic, and he took it all in selfishly. Ramsay rested his forehead on Sansa’s shoulder and exhaled, still overwhelmed with how she was able to transport him back to the forest of home, to a time when he was happiest, in just a split second.

Whenever he was with Myranda, she smelled of fire and ash. He felt the sudden spasm on Sansa’s shoulder, and without him knowing, his hands were resting upon her body, the left on the flat of her stomach, the other on the curve of her hip which was thickened with the smallclothes underneath her purple gown.

He had been trying to tame himself, restricting his body from the call of her irresistible urge, to tame that urge which until now had remained dormant . Sansa closed her eyes and bit her bottom lip in a slight pout, suppressing a sob. Her chest was thrumming with fear, and it felt like music to Ramsay’s skin. He traced the concave of her waist with light fingers, his lips still on her ear. “You’re so beautiful, Sansa…”

“You can let go of me, milord,” Sansa hissed through gritted teeth, blinking back briny tears, and steeling herself for Ramsay to lose his temper. “I have made my decision, and it is _not_ you, sir. You forget that I am a married woman, and nothing you can say or do to me will convince me otherwise.”

So, there it was, then. Sansa Stark had chosen to remain married to the fucking little cunt of a dwarf, and not _him_. He growled with the effort to restrain himself. Sansa’s eyes were fixated at a spot behind Ramsay’s head, unfocused and glassy, almost lifeless.

The lifeless, almost disinterested gaze with which Ramsay was met with did not suit Sansa Stark at all, for she was a beautiful young woman and to see this look of utter disinterest and disgust upon her pretty features was a sin. Sansa had turned her head away from Ramsay, not wanting to look at him, no doubt afraid of what was going to become of her.

The handsome dark-haired young lord could not explain his sudden shift in attitude as he let his hand slowly slide off her hand that he had rather unceremoniously grabbed in a vain attempt to keep her from leaving his side, before stepping backwards,and hearing Sansa let out an audible sigh of relief. Ramsay, for reasons he could not identify, could not help staring at Sansa. Her white, supple, unblemished skin.

Sansa Stark had almost translucent skin, thin, and without discernable pigment. Sansa was fair, almost like that of the finest porcelain, yet she did hold at least a little bit of pink in her cheeks, currently flushed high with color at the unexpected contact. Ramsay bit his bottom lip in a slight pout and drifted his hand upward, his fingertips grazing her cheek delicately, as if any harder than that, she would break.

 _So soft, so fragile_ , he thought ecstatically. He wondered just how much resistance the she-wolf would have if he were to try to kiss her and he wanted. The moment, however, was immediately ruined, his good mood dissipated the Imp’s wife let out a surprised gasp and backed away, her back pressing further against the wall until she was well pressed against it.

Ramsay felt the inner beast within his chest tug and strain on its chain as he stifled a low growl in the back of his throat, his blue eyes flashing angrily, their hue darkening to a cerulean color. It was probably due to the fact that Sansa had not felt what he had just then. Gritting his teeth, he stared at her bitterly.

Was he really _that_ despicable? The fair-skinned beauty was breathing heavily, her breast rising and falling, and he could feel her shake.

Blinking owlishly at the young woman whose wrist he currently held captive in a vice-grip, Ramsay quickly realized who he was. A young lord of these lands. He could have any woman he wanted. Most women would happily lift their skirts and show him a bit of ankle (or any part that he so chose) and gladly bed him for the promise of jewels, titles, the potential to be his Princess.

And he most certainly did not need to think of that fucking little Lannister man’s feelings. He did not give a damn about etiquette and proper edict as far as Sansa Stark was concerned, and it was then that his gaze drifted downward and settled upon her left hand, and he froze. There on her left ring finger glistened a simple but elegant yellow gold wedding band. Had she chosen _him_ instead, Ramsay would have seen to it her wedding ring was made of the finest gold and at least had a diamond in it, but the girl seemed quite content with the simple and rather quite plain piece of jewelry.

Ramsay ground his teeth in anger and locked his jaw, and the girl let out a low whimper, and this only fueled whelming ache and fire between his legs. “Shh.” Ramsay whispered it into the shell of the Stark woman’s ear, his teeth grazing her earlobe. He did it again, as much to soothe girl’s nerves as much as to calm himself. “Shush, love. You will enjoy what comes next. You have chosen the Imp. I see that now, but…doesn’t mean the two of us still can’t have a little fun, right?” When she favored a stunned silence as a response, Ramsay took that as his opportunity to continue.

“Milord, I…please don’t do this, don’t do this to me,” she whimpered.

Her begging only spurned him on, and he grinned. “I won’t hurt you. Too much,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “You are to be reunited with your little lord husband in but a few precious days, milady, I know that, Stark. You think that I didn’t notice” he added, jerking his head towards the gold ring upon her finger, almost as an afterthought, and let out a shuddering breath as his hand wandered of its own accord, no longer taking direction from his mind as it came to rest upon the column of her pale, perfect white throat and he squeezed. “It is a shame, milady. _I_ am the better choice, but since you will not take my word for it, then…I guess I’ll just have to prove it to you,” he whispered into the shell of her ear.

 _So soft_ , he thought, parting his lips slightly, imagining for a moment to envision the girl’s eyes widening in shock as he squeezed his hands around her throat and slowly drained the life force out of his brother’s future princess, watching the light dim in her dark eyes. And yet…even that thought troubled Ramsay.

The thought of Sansa Stark, easily the most beautiful woman in all of Westeros, the belle of the ball, dead at his hands. There was a scream from deep within that forced its way from his mouth, it was as if his fuming soul had unleashed a horrible shadow demon. It was rumored that the girl’s father had been in league with a witch who dabbled in the arts of black magic, and Ramsay wondered if the Stark woman standing before him by now had put him under a spell, as if by witch’s curse. Ramsay wondered how much of it was true, and if it was merely a falsehood spread by the vicious peasants.

Regardless, he knew only in this moment how he felt—how this woman who trembled at him beneath his touch, which was surprisingly gentle, was making him feel. The only Ramsay could feel was anger and humiliation at the girl’s rejection of him. That he did not want to trust anyone, because it would be easier for him…safer.

Oh, he knew he was hiding a truth from himself, of how much this really had to do with scars that just simply would not heal, and his sadness. Ramsay shook his head violently to clear his mind of such weak-willed thoughts, his hands curling into tight fists and his teeth locked up once the sound was out. He would deal with his…feelings later.

If Sansa would not have him, then there was always Myranda. Ramsay felt Sansa trembled beneath his touch and that simple shudder of revulsion stopped the man dead in his tracks as he stared into her surprisingly warm and pleading blue eyes. In the Imp’s wife’s cobalt hues was her soul, with the kind of beauty that expanded a moment into a personal eternity, a heaven he wished to be a part of.

Sansa Stark’s blue eyes were bright and burning with anger and fear. Ramsay felt his frustrations well deep within his chest and he thought he was going to explode, and he felt himself exhale through his nose in sleep, deep, and slightly shaking breaths, still violently maintaining his ironclad grip upon Sansa’s delicate, birdlike wrist.

He took another deep breath, wanting nothing more than to scream at the girl, how she was making the wrong choice by choosing Tyrion fucking Lannister over him, to have a tantrum and raise his hand to her, and yet…behind those fearful azure eyes of hers that had seemingly once again found a way to trap Ramsay in the depths of their endless gaze all on their own, much like that day in the courtyard, and now there was a pleading that lingered in her orbs, sadness and shock, as well.

She anxiously looked toward her left and right. Ramsay did not blame her for being unreasonably terrified. He could see how terrified she would be as this memory would come back and play on her mind over and over again.

It would repeat. He knew this, for he had experienced the same thing again with…Reek, who lingered deep in the dungeons below their feet. It was just too easy for Ramsay, for him to be cruel in the moment and then the damage was done. So many times in life, especially towards Father, he had wanted to unsay things, to take them all back, he didn’t mean them. He was learning how to deal with it, but slowly.

It was one of the reasons Ramsay had taken a liking to Sansa so much, because whenever he was around this fair-skinned, auburn-haired beauty of a winter rose, he did not feel the incessant urge to kill propelling him forward. Ramsay continued to gaze into those dark eyes of his brother’s pretty little bride, and he felt his anger slowly begin to dissipate, though the pleading, desperate look she was currently giving him did nothing to quell the overpowering whelming in his groin. He swallowed past a lump forming in his throat, feeling his eyes begin to moisten.

The ember-haired winter rose in front of him, her eyes, even when afraid, showed the unfamiliar kind of gentle concern that he always hoped Father would show him one day, though much to his disappointment and hatred, Father always saved his praise and looks of proud adoration and love for Domeric instead.

Looking down his nose into Sansa Stark’s eyes, the emotions in the girl’s eyes was fathoms deep, yet they carried the warmth and life of a sunlit surface, even here on the outskirts of the North, with seemingly endless brutal winters, and it was only end of November. Her eyes had a thousand shades of brown within them.

 _Mesmerizing and bewitching. Just like you, Sansa_ , he thought. Ramsay knew that Sansa believed of him that his designs of her were for him to take her for himself, to take her away from the Imp, marry her, impregnate her with an heir, maybe even two or three. And yet, while that had been his intentions originally, he knew now that he did not want this. Not in this way.

Not like this. No… Ramsay had not anticipated the Stark woman’s rejection when he’d demanded of her to stay put, because no female had ever rejected him before until now. All of them, they were his. Even now, as the Stark girl stood there, cowering underneath his weight, and staring up at him with wide, fearful eyes, Ramsay realized that this was not what he wanted.

This celestial being, the dwarf’s new lover, and Ramsay’s soon-to-be wife, whether she knew it or not, this woman, for reasons that were foreign to Ramsay, she did not see what every other woman in Winterfell saw whenever they were forced to meet the nobleman’s wrathful and sometimes lustful gaze. This strange creature, she did not see a young lord and future Warden of the North full of promise and potential. Instead, Sansa Stark saw him. Exactly as he was and he had, miraculously, for a moment, made him forget that he was who he was. What he was.

It was clear to Ramsay now. Sansa was afraid of him, reviled him as some form of beast or monster rather than a handsome young lord, and it was clear by the incessant way she kept fidgeting with her gold wedding ring, almost tenderly so, that she cared for the accursed little Imp who was nothing more than a wretch. _Maybe she even loves it. Love._ He sneered angrily. Ramsay could feel the sweat drench in his skin from the adrenaline coursing through his veins and there was still the matter of the almost unbearable heat pooling between his legs, and he felt like he was going to implode if he did not do something soon to remedy this little problem.

“Tell me, _beloved_ , answer me this one question for me, darling, I'm just dying to know, and don't even _think_ of lying to me,” he sneered, in a last ditch effort to control his urge. Her leg shifted against his thigh, and he almost growled with the effort to restrain himself. Ramsay rested his chin on her shoulder and whispered his next question into his future bride’s ear, desperate to hear the Stark woman’s answer.

“Wh—what it is it, milord?” Her voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. His hold on her hips tightened, and he growled again restraining himself. His brother’s bride was as fragile as a dove. But he too, recognized her courage to stand still, standing proud and tall, despite her obvious fear, despite witnessing the defamation of her home, and the agreement to marry one of the sons of the bastard who betrayed and murdered her mother and kidnapped her brother. Sansa Stark was tougher than anyone had thought.

“Are you foolish like your little lord husband is? Do you believe in love?” There was no malice in his voice. He questioned it out of the void, resting his forehead behind her left ear. Her answer would help him cease the madness wild between his legs and resist his dark urge. There was a silence, and Ramsay felt that fire seed of anger begin to resurface, despite his best efforts to quell his swelling temper. He had thought perhaps his brother’s little bride was not answering him simply to spite him, rub salt in the already tender wound inflicted upon his heart by learning Sansa had chosen _him_.

But then he blinked, and Ramsay quickly realized that the young woman had not expected such a question, and him asking it of her had caught her off guard and therefore, she did not respond. Ramsay lifted his chin and jutted it out slightly, turning to face Sansa, who was panting heavily, her heavily lidded blue eyes downcast, twisting her fingers together, nervously fidgeting with the plain gold wedding ring the dwarf had given her, currently resting idle on her left ring finger, and Ramsay resisted the great urge to smack her hand away.

Ramsay could not help but notice how the fingers of her right hand continuously weaved in and out of her knuckles. She was nervous. He swallowed heavily past the lump forming in his throat.

Ramsay could feel the throbbing of his own eyes, the thumping of his heart against his chest. He felt his fingers curl into a fist, nails digging into the skin of his palm as he clenched and un-clenched his hands, unsure of what to do with them, honestly. He was…nervous. Since when did he, a lord, ever get fucking _nervous_? Ramsay could not hear his rapid breathing as his breaths quickened, but he could feel the air flooding in and out of his lungs as he waited for his little brother’s bride to answer his question.

Hesitantly, his blue eyes looked towards Sansa Stark. The inexplicable and sudden fear he felt welling deep within the uncomfortable pit currently forming in his stomach tortured his guts, churning his stomach into tense cramps. His fears engulfed his conscience, knocking all other thoughts aside. Her answer to his question would make things quite plain and perfectly clear to him whom she loved. It overwhelmed his body, making it drastically exhausted all of a sudden.

However, most of all, the fear of the ambiguity of not knowing Sansa’s answer was making it calm and it scared him badly.

That was what scared him most of all, and it did not help his situation that the power of speech seemed to have rendered his brother’s lover mute. She blinked owlishly at Ramsay, staring into his bright blue eyes burning with anger, and her heart fell silent. “ **ANSWER ME**!” Ramsay roared, spittle flying from his lips. But the foolish woman could not force her lips to move.

As if stuck underwater, everything was slow and warbled as he pointed a shaky finger in her face. “Do you have nothing to say on the matter, Stark? I asked you a question, Sansa, now tell me what you’re thinking!” Ramsay watched as the girl flinched at the harsh bark in his voice. But her mind was blank and blue eyes wide as she stared at the humiliated and rejected man in horror, how the man was silently seething, utterly fuming.

 _For_ her. _Because_ of her. His blue eyes desperately searched hers…waiting for her to answer. She just had to say something! Sansa wildly searched her mind for something reasonable to say, but to her surprise, her heart answered for her.

“Yes. I believe in love. And I am fortunate to have it with…” _Tyrion_ , is what he knew she was about to say, and he felt his blood boil, though the fire and ache between his loins immediately dissipated at hearing Sansa Stark’s words. Her voice was a soft susurration, like a soft breeze in the summer.

And that was when he let her go, relinquishing his grip upon her wrist. It was clear to him, judging by the fear in his future bride’s eyes, that she only saw the monster, the beast inside. And of course, she was right. He felt the fire in between his legs dissipate almost instantly, the overwhelming urge to take her right there and then in the castle’s library against the wall leaving Ramsay. Oh, he would eventually, of this he knew, but not yet.

Not in this way. “Go then. Leave me,” he croaked hoarsely, feeling moisture in his eyes as he released her, shoving her forward slightly, albeit surprisingly gently so, and not violently, as she expected it to. Sansa stood frozen on the spot, mouth slightly agape in shock, her soft, luscious lips parted, still glancing up at Ramsay, her eyes fearful of Lord Roose Bolton’s bastard, and what he had almost done to her.

She was staring at him as she had that moment in the courtyard two weeks ago upon first laying eyes on him and his twin brother. That look of insatiable curiosity, almost a thirst. Ramsay could not stand it. He wished for nothing more than Sansa Stark to disappear and not look at him. Not as he was at present. A mess. Sansa stuck out her bottom lip in a slight pout and bit down hard on it, clearly hesitating. “Sansa.”

Ramsay felt his voice drop and become dangerously low and soft, and the girl flinched, though she had by this point, turned around on the heel of her boot, preparing to flee the library and make for the stairwell that led to the second floor of the castle, undoubtedly to the East Wing to head to the safety of her chambers where they both knew existed a lock on the door to her bedroom.

Ramsay’s voice was low and soft, but powerful enough to send a chill of fear and…something else through Sansa’s body, sending an incredible heat coursing through her body, setting her blood on fire. His voice was deep, whenever he spoke, because of his status as Prince, every head in the room would turn. Ramsay Bolton had that rich, smooth, melodious tone, just like Tyrion. _The kind of voice a man ought to have_ , Sansa thought, nervously biting the wall of her cheek. Both men, whenever they spoke, spoke as if they controlled all corners of Westeros, every region. Their experience seeping through with just a few choice words, and a look.

Both men reminded Sansa of a stormy, dark day.

“Don’t.” Ramsay’s warning escaped him as a low growl.

“Don’t what, milord?” She bit down on her tongue, tasting iron, and she quickly realized she bit her tongue hard enough that it bled. It was a miracle that Sansa could even find her words, after what had almost transpired here. Tyrion would be furious once he learned of what happened. Or rather, what had _almost_ happened.

“Don’t believe in it. In _love_ ,” he answered, and when Ramsay saw Sansa knit her brows together in confusion, a frown playing upon her beautiful features, and he returned the look. For one wild inappropriate moment, he wanted to see what her smile looked like. But Ramsay Snow knew better.

“Why?” Sansa felt like her head would likely explode. The moment she realized she had misinterpreted Lord Roose’s son’s actions, his expressions, and his words, and her heart gave a lurch. It seemed to take ages for Ramsay to find his voice.

Now, the silence lay upon her skin like a thick poison. It seeped into her blood and paralyzed her mind. Her pupils had become dilated and there was a tremor in her hands. She gingerly rubbed the wrist Ramsay had almost broken, and already, Sansa could see the beginning purple bruises of the markings she knew that she did not want but would bear them regardless. Tyrion, when he arrived, was going to be _livid_. Ramsay’s face as she lifted her head to gaze up at the distraught man silently fuming in his anger and disappointment was one of awkwardness, not even hurrying to save her feelings, to fill the void between them that hung in the air like a cold chill.

This void was a cruelty Ramsay had inflicted upon Sansa unintentionally, but had he been aware, Sansa knew he would not have cared a wit. He picked his eyes off the floor, where he had been staring at the hem of her simple green linen gown with the weariness of one who was fatigued with the whining of a small child and raised his eyebrows, glowering at young Sansa Stark. The silence was poisonous in its nothingness, cruelly underscoring how vapid their conversation had become.

The silence was eerily unnatural, and both Ramsay and Sansa decided that they hated it, though neither knew what to say yet.

Finally, Ramsay shattered the silence, his voice low and sounding immensely disappointed. “Because…I do not have it.” He let out a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, as though he were fighting off a migraine. “If you stay with me, Sansa, then I will kill you bit by bit. I cannot lie to you, milady. That is what I do to those who claim to love me,” Ramsay growled, restlessly beginning to pace the floor, his hands clasped behind his back, actively averting her gaze. Sansa was stunned into silence and could only blink. “Why? Seven fucking hells. I don’t know,” Ramsay snarled. “If I have enough power over you, it puts me in control. Having control makes you strong, Sansa, and we Barret men don’t like weaklings. It gives me satisfaction. Almost like…it is the thing that drives me. The thing that I would do any goddamn thing for. You have chosen this life, by marrying the fucking Imp, Lady Sansa, by not realizing what kind of life he will give you. What _I_ could have given you. What kind of life I _will_ give you, Sansa. I promise.”

Sansa’s lips parted open in shock, and she was struggling to find her words. There it was again. That inquisitive, curious look. Ramsay could not stand it, for her to look at him this way. “Go. Leave me. Do I need to say it a second time? I really hate saying it a second time. **GO**!” Ramsay roared, looking down at his boots in defeat, causing Sansa to visibly flinch and shrink away.

The young woman did not need to be told a third time. For which Ramsay was grateful. If she had, she would have met the back of his hand, given how temperamental he felt. Quickly ducking under Ramsay’s arm, Sansa picked up the skirts of her purple gown slightly and fled as quickly as she could into the library, the closest room in the hallway that would separate her from Lord Roose’s bastard and slammed the door.

He let out a haggard sigh as he heard the click of the deadbolt.

Neither of them unable to believe tonight. Both parties, it should be noted, were unaware of Roose lingering in the shadows.

He had seen everything…


	23. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel like I was on a roll with this chapter. Uh, I guess I should leave a note here for slight Sanrion smut? Sansa has a dirty mind for getting revenge on Ramsay LOL but I could totally see Tyrion going along with it XD. 
> 
> Her purple dress for this chapter can be found here: https://i.pinimg.com/originals/55/53/4e/55534e0ba1725d94d424707a7d38cec0.jpg 
> 
> I love modeling for Sansa in case you can't tell XD
> 
> A song that I listened to while writing this chapter if you're interested is I'll Fly with You by von Gigi D'Agostino

** Sansa **

Exhaling a shaking breath through her nose, Sansa remained leaned against the wooden door frame and slid slowly to the floor as the strength left her legs immediately.

Her heartbeat wildly against the confines of her chest, deafening. What was that? What had just happened? Sansa shakily knit her fingers together as she forced her body to relax and remain calm, forcing her breaths in and out, though it felt as though no benefit was coming to her lungs. Just dizziness and an overwhelming sense of nausea.

She had inadvertently thrown herself into Ramsay Bolton’s cross hairs, there was no doubt of that, by daring to talk back to him and reject the man’s unwanted advances.

The gods only knew how many of the Boltons’ unspoken rules she had just broken.

“I’m sorry, Tyrion,” Sansa heard herself mumble as she craned her neck upwards to look at the rows upon rows of books, thinking that her lord husband would like this library very much once the wenches had given the place a good cleaning, and if they were not up to the task, then by the gods and the Light of the Seven, she would do it herself. It mattered not that she was a noble, she could not—would not—one of her favorite places within Winterfell’s walls lay in disgrace and in a state of waste like this.

“I—I wasn’t…strong enough for this place,” she whispered, hating hearing the crack and faltering dip in her voice. Sansa bit the inner wall of her cheek as she felt an uncomfortable pit in her stomach. Ramsay Bolton had acted as if what he had almost demanded of her were simple and naught out of the ordinary. She’d heard the rumors.

Though she had not wanted to believe the gossiping of the smallfolk and servants, so it was not as if she were completely ignorant on that matter. Sansa wasn’t a stupid _fool_.

Ramsay had been staring at her with such rage and melancholia in his eyes, and Sansa had thought for certain she had been about to let herself ravaged right there in the hallway, and then there was the strange way he had regarded her. Such pain and torment ridden on his face and in his eyes, the likes of which she had not seen before.

It was the very last thing she expected to see in those sparkling azure eyes of the bastard’s, for what could a Bolton man, who grew up with such privilege, surrounded by everything he could possibly want and then some, ever know of struggle or misery? It did not make any sense, and all these conflicting thoughts were swirling around in Sansa’s tired head. She would not dare let herself think this, and yet, she was doing it anyway, how Lord Roose Bolton’s son had almost looked _ashamed_ of the way he was.

Sansa blinked back briny tears and bowed her head, swallowing hard past the lump in her throat. “I—I am not strong enough for this. Were you here, maybe, but…”

“Please don’t talk about yourself like that, Lady Sansa. I did not come all this way to hear you berate yourself in this manner. You are _strong_ ,” a new voice interrupted, coming from her left, and Sansa’s heart raced in her chest, adrenaline surging through her veins, spreading rapidly like Wildfire. Someone… _someone else was in here_. _Again_!

How many _more_ times must she endure being trapped in a small confined space with a Stranger?

Sansa stifled a groan and a mewling whimper and wildly looked around. Sansa could feel the panic begin and the tension grew in her face and limbs, her mind replaying the incident that had transpired with Ramsay Bolton in the corridor only moments ago. Her breathing became more rapid, shallower, as she wildly looked about the library, her eyes darting to the left and right for the source of the voice.

Sansa gasped short spurts of tired breaths and wearily glanced around as the voice continued to resonate throughout all corners of the dust-covered library, though it sounded nearer in proximity than it had before.

“Are you alone?” the man’s voice asked, and just the single question was enough to send a chill of fear down her spine.

She gulped and swallowed past the lump in her throat nervously between pained, shaking breaths and wildly glanced around for something—anything—with which to defend herself in the even that Ramsay had returned to finish what he had tried to start.

Spotting a rather large golden iron poker prong used for tending the fireplace near one of the bookshelves by her feet, she kicked off her slippers and thought that sufficient enough to ward off any attackers that were intruding upon her sanctuary.

She knelt hastily to pick it up, her fingers curling into protective fists around her only weapon as the voice neared her again, and she caught faint glimpses of a shadow.

 _What if it’s Stannis Baratheon?_ Sansa’s mind felt like it was going on overdrive, for she had heard the whispers in the walls of Winterfell, how the self-proclaimed King Baratheon was rumored to be league in with a Red Witch of the highest order. Steeling her nerves, determined not to let this _intruder_ in the library feed off her fear, Sansa curled her fingers tighter around the poker and felt the coolness of the metal.

The man’s magnificent voice rang from beyond her line of sight, and thanks to the fact there was barely a single lit candelabra in this dusty library, she could not see the intruder. “Who’s there?” she whispered and bit down hard on her bottom lip in fear.

Sansa barely felt herself inhale a sharp breath and hold it, waiting with bated breath as Tyrion stepped from the shadows, stealing her breath and the very heat from her body. Suddenly, her defenses were little more than parchment paper, paper that was being soaked by the rapidly falling briny drops from her eyes. Her husband’s face came from the shadows, handsome features suspended between a strange grief and elation.

She winced as she felt her ironclad grip like steel slacken and drop the poker to the ground, where it clattered to the ground by her bare feet with a loud _clang_ , louder than she would have liked. Sansa winced visibly, thinking that there was no way in the seven hells and the gods above that someone on the outside hadn’t heard that noise, for the echo _still_ reverberated off the library’s walls, and dared to peek over her shoulder at the closed door behind her. Nothing but silence. The two of them were still alone.

Tyrion met her gaze and scowled, though there was no mistaking the playful glinting sheen in his cobalt eyes. “I would have thought that would have been obvious, milady. I would hope that you would have been able to recognize the sound of your husband’s voice upon hearing it,” he teased, glancing around to the left and right, as though he half expected Ramsay or even the Warden to return and escort him out. “You _don’t_ want to know what Bronn had to promise one of this place’s serving girls in order to sneak me in here to see you.” He scrunched his nose and pulled a face

Sansa refused to look away, even as her lips trembled and her shoulders heaved with emotion as her husband stepped further into the light, finally revealing his hiding place, unwilling to back down. Her dark lashes brimmed heavy with tears of relief, her hands clenched into shaking fists, in a desperate battle against the grief of thinking she had swayed him from coming, how she remembered how he’d looked at her that night.

A lone tear traced down her cheek, and just like that, the floodgates opened. Her blue eyes looked as if the oceans had been encased inside of small glass marbles, and then her smooth orbs appeared to be cracked. This magnificent ocean had started to flood and leak as the little beads of water streamed down Sansa Stark’s pale cheeks.

“I—is it really you?” Sansa whispered hoarsely, feeling waves of relief as Tyrion silently nodded. Sansa felt the giggle escape her lips as Tyrion’s mouth formed into a smirk. “Please tell me Ser Bronn is going to sheep shift Ramsay Bolton’s bed for her.”

Tyrion blinked, surprised by her outburst, but she could have sworn she saw him smirk.

“N—no one saw you come in here after me? Ramsay? The—The Warden? Are you certain no one saw you? B...but _how_?” breathed Sansa breathlessly.

Tyrion mutely shook his head and took a hesitant step forward, into the light. “The benefit of being a dwarf, milady. We’re often ignored, which makes it beneficial to slip past undetected if I should so choose to, and given our marriage is looked upon with scorn here, I thought it best not to draw attention to myself. We—we came in through the crypts,” he explained, a pained expression on his face and in his cobalt blue eyes.

Seconds passed, Sansa’s brain taking in, struggling to comprehend that he was not merely another hallucination, a specter of her nightmares sent to torment her in sleep.

Her brain could not formulate a thought, at least not one based in any language, and if she did not touch him soon, the very veins in her blood and fibers would tear themselves apart. Before she could so much as draw in air that she knew her lungs needed, her body melted into his form as she remained kneeling on the ground so that she could look into Tyrion’s cobalt blue eyes.

She did not bother to hide the smile that tugged at the edges of her lips as she reached out a shaking hand to ghost the pads of her fingertips along his sharp, smooth jawline. “You…you _shaved_ ,” she whispered teasingly, blinking back briny tears that threatened to escape from her eyes. “For me? You did that for me?”

Tyrion nodded, a light pink blush speckling along his cheeks. “Y-yes. You…you said that I looked better without a beard and you preferred your men to be clean, Lady Sansa…”

There was no mistaking the hesitation in his voice, and Sansa smiled. How the ground between the two of them was erased, she would never recall, but one moment he was standing a few feet in front of her, and the next, they were morphed into a single being. The surprising warmth of her body met Sansa’s ice cold, frigid skin, giving her hope like he always had, even back in King’s Landing when everything was _wrong_.

One of his hands clasped around Sansa’s lower back, rubbing gentle circles on the small of her back, and his other came to rest at the back of her skull, his palm pressing in softly as he stroked her hair. With each soft touch, more tears fell, tears neither of them bothered to wipe away. After what felt like ages separated from the one man who she could trust above all else to treat her well and to keep her safe from these wretched snakes in the night, these Boltons, she knew the two of them had the chance to make new memories together and wasting time was not something they could no longer afford.

Time was a luxury that they did not simply have anymore, and it was an element that had never been on her side, nor Tyrion’s for that matter, what she knew of him. Sansa let out a wistful sigh as she could feel the heart that beat within as she felt her ironclad grip on her husband tighten, her back still resting against the barred wooden door. His hands were folded around her back, drawing her in closer to his small form.

She could feel her body shake, crying for the missed time she would never get back, crying to release the long tension of these long weeks without Tyrion by her side, to silently apologize for the words she had said to him that fateful night in the dungeons.

Tyrion pulled his head back slightly to study her face and wiped her tears falling in graceful tracts down her pale cheeks with a calloused finger, and even this roughness brought more relief than Sansa believed her heart could hold. She smiled as she realized he was practically eating her with his eyes, his blue eyes wandering up and down the length of her form in her purple silk gown and matching corset, running his hand through her hair, as if he himself could not quite believe that this was not part of an almost forgotten good dream.

As his lips met hers, his kiss was sweet, gentle, and tasted of Sansa’s tears. Her husband’s kiss was one steeped in a passion that ignited a strange, foreign feeling of warmth spiraling through Sansa’s body, setting the blood in her veins aflame. It was the promise of realness, of the primal desire that lived within them all. And with it, Tyrion told Sansa that he was awake, connected within, that he embraced himself, who he was, rather than attempting to be anything that he was not. Sansa wanted to speak as he reluctantly pulled away first, pulling back to study her face, but all she could croak was, “Don’t go. Don’t leave me, Tyrion. You _cannot_ leave me alone with these people. All of them are _monsters_. If you be no dream, do not leave or I should like slit my wrists in the morning. I cannot— _will not_ —marry Ramsay.”

Tyrion’s mouth painted a soft smile and he nodded once before folding Sansa in his arms again. “I only heard a little of what happened, the things you said to him just now. I commend you on your bravery, milady, but I do not think that was wise of you,” he confessed, his pained look deepening. “Bolton’s bastard is going to remember your words,” he began hesitantly, a pained look in his eyes as he toyed with the ends of a strand of her hair. “Did he hurt you?” he demanded, his words escaping him as a low growl as he felt that all—too familiar hot spark of anger within his veins.

Sansa mutely shook her head. “N—no,” she whispered hoarsely, her voice cracking as she drew Tyrion closer and rested her chin atop of her husband’s mop of curly hair.

“Good.” Tyrion’s voice echoed. “You will tell me if he does.” The request was not made lightly, and she recognized it as a command. Sansa nodded mutely, feeling an inexplicable tightening in her chest. “I only want you to be happy, Lady Sansa. I do not want you to suffer anymore on my account, wife.” At his last word, he faltered slightly, but immediately turned his head to the side to cough once to clear his throat.

“Are you all right?” Sansa asked, surprised when Tyrion waved off his wife’s concerns with a brush of his hand, and when he did not look at her, she began to grow annoyed and cupped his chin in her hand, tilting his head upward, forcing him to look at her. “Talk to me,” she encouraged. “Something ails you, husband. What is it, love?”

He seemed to melt a little at her term of endearment. “What do you think of me?”

Sansa shivered at his query and repressed the tremor that went down her spine, and instinctively wrapped her arms around him as much for warmth as much to seek comfort herself. “Kind. Caring. Far too good to me than perhaps I deserve,” she croaked hoarsely, hearing the crack in her voice as she lowered her voice an octave. “I—I was _horrible_ to you when I first met you, a—and I did not…I do not deserve the things that you say to me, and let alone that of your companionship,” she protested.

Her husband made a muffled noise at the back of her throat and Sansa blinked, pulling away from the sweet embrace of resting her chin upon the top of his hair and she furrowed her brows. It took her a moment to realize Lord Tyrion was laughing.

“I’ve been told my company is quite exquisite,” he teased playfully, but his grin faltered, and he adapted a more somber expression when he did not see his wife laugh.

“It is.” Sansa quickly nodded her agreement. “I can think of no one else who I would rather spend the rest of my natural days with, for you have been nothing but good to me, and…you—you spend so much time trying to get people to love you, Tyrion, and you’ll end up the most popular dead man in all Seven Kingdoms, when all you need is right in front of you. I hope that you can see that for yourself, my husband,” Sansa swallowed down hard as her vision blurred as she lost herself in Tyrion’s cobalt blue eyes, which were moistening and glistening with unshed tears.

Any words she wanted to say to her husband were drowned by an immense flood of emotions. Her heart swelled and strained against her chest, cutting her breaths short.

“I…I care for you, Lady Sansa. I love you. With all that I am, though I know I am not much. You know that I have never wanted another, needed another, but you. Don’t you know? It’s you,” Tyrion murmured into the shell of her ear, and that sent an incredible heat coursing through Sansa’s entire body, for she knew he did not say those single three words lightly. For him to say those three words was an incredible feat.

Instead of answering him immediately, Sansa pressed her lips to his and gave him a low, slow burning kiss. She could feel his body stiffen involuntarily, seemingly surprised by her reaction to his words. Sansa bit down on the inside of her lip as she pulled away, struggling to temper down her urge to meet him again halfway for another warm kiss.

She was not disappointed, for this time, it was Tyrion who initiated, and the next thing she knew, Tyrion had slammed his lips to hers and very nearly knocked the air from her lungs. Sansa hardly had a moment to react before he pressed his tongue to the seam of her lips and, at her grant of access, delved into her mouth. It was a very strong, sensual kiss, with the strong scent of Honeywine being exchanged in the intermingling of their breaths. Her arms reached up and tangled around his strong, thick neck. In an instant, Sansa had pulled away and arched up into his lean chest, moaning in the contact of Tyrion’s body heat against her own as he fumbled for the lacing strings of Sansa’s corset and the back lacing of her purple silk gown with shaking fingers.

Sansa let her eyes close, letting her thoughts wander where they pleased. She could very nearly feel the slight burn of the wine as it rolled off her tongue and seeped down her throat with every push of his tongue against hers. As usual this last week and leading up to this very moment, her thoughts wandered back to a part of her that Sansa kept secret and locked away from polite society. When Sansa realized what was happening and feeling the incredible heat that had begun to pool between her legs. They ran in succession in her head, imagined scenarios of the two of them spending a night beneath the sheets of their marriage bed spending the rest of their lives in love’s embrace, in this darkness which they knew they could not fight, tremulous and tender, sweet yet sinful.

These lustful thoughts set Sansa’s skin alight again and pushed her to acknowledge what she had been attempting to deny for a while on those nights when she would sleep alone, wishing Tyrion were next to her, her only solace, her light in the dark. The strong and unrelenting need, this urge that Mother had always warned her to save for her husband, and now, her husband was right here in front of her.

With each passing day leading up to this night, Sansa had found the wait had become to her more and more unbearable. And why did society dictate the two of them wait, her conscience had asked this question of her several times. Sansa knew where her heart lay, and what she wanted. Who she wanted.

Sansa drew in a deep breath and turned her face towards the crook of Tyrion’s neck. Without even thinking, she gave him a kiss, starting a trail of small kisses at his collarbone and trace her lips up to his perfect ear. She gently nipped at his earlobe, and she felt him laugh and move at the gesture.

“I would not let another, especially that boorish fiend of a vicious little bastard Ramsay Snow lay a hand on me,” Sansa murmured, burying her face in the crook of his neck. “I…” She bit her bottom lip in hesitation and swallowed back her nerves. “I wish to know…what it feels like to love someone. A—and…I’d like for that…to be you. I do not think that Ramsay will want a wife who is no longer a virgin, nor one who is already hopefully with child. I--I must admit, I don't know how long these things take, but we have to try,” she added, a pink blush deepening on her cheeks. “And I still owe you an heir. This is the only way.”

His response was a gentle lingering kiss to her forehead. “You know that I would love you until the end of the world.” Though Sansa furrowed her brows together in quandary as she took note of her husband’s ashen face, and the look of pure unadulterated terror in his azure orbs and on his face was not exactly what she expected. Though truth be told, she did not know herself what she wanted his reaction to be, she merely craved the assurance that Tyrion would never leave. “A—are you sure you want this?” Tyrion stammered, his face draining of color as he met her gaze. “Do you know what you want, a—are you certain you know what you’re talking about…?”

But the man’s protests were cut short as she reached up a finger to his lips, effectively shushing him. “Yes.” Slowly, she approached Tyrion and took him by the hand, which was trembling as well, so in that regard, Sansa was not alone. “If you do not wish to love me yet, then you may _tell_ me, Tyrion,” she whispered softly, splaying her hand across his chest. “It is fine to say no if this is…not what you want, husband.”

“I—it’s not…that…” He looked away from her, his poor cheeks a brilliant shade of red. “I…” Sansa waited patiently as her husband gathered his thoughts, her thumb stroking the back of his hand, the pads of her fingertips ghosting over his brilliant yellow gold wedding ring. After a beat, he blew out a huffed breath of agitation and finally turned his gaze on her, which was equal parts confused and concerned, and he was looking at his wife as though Sansa had sprouted antlers. “You are so beautiful, my wife, but…are you sure this is what you want?” he said, his voice quiet, cracking.

She grinned down at the floor beneath their feet as she had folded her legs cross-legged under the skirts of her purple silk gown. Sansa leaned in and cupped his chin with her free hand, gently making Tyrion look at her. She locked her soft, icy blue gaze on his, ignoring the swooping sensation in her stomach.

“What I ask to know now is if you wish it as well. I cannot convince you, and I do not wish to on this night if you are not ready, Tyrion. I can only be truthful in what I want, and that is you. I will _not_ give myself to the Warden’s son. I won’t. I would rather share the experience with someone who is kind to me, and good to me, and I know that will _not_ be Ramsay Bolton. Besides…” She bit her bottom lip and looked away for a moment. “If there is a chance we could sire an heir and relatively soon, then perhaps that will entice Roose Bolton to call off the wedding. It’s a bit of a long shot, but it’s the best I can think of,” she said.

Tyrion stared at her, incredulity shimmering in his gaze. “… _Me_ …you are sure?” The word fell from his lips like a dirty secret, whispered and quick and in disbelief.

She nodded, swallowing down her nerves again. “You. Yes. More than anything, Highness.” Sansa’s cheeks burned something fierce. She had never spoken so plainly before, and certainly not about this.

Still, it had to be said, and Sansa waited patiently as she could while Tyrion silently worked through his disbelief. Where this behavior was coming from, she did not know, and she hoped that her husband did not doubt her convictions. At this point, Sansa knew she could only guess at what he was thinking.

Sansa only hoped that whatever answer he offered reflected his feelings and that he did not lie to her about what it was that he wanted. The silence wore on, but Sansa refused to take another move to close off the gap of space or move to undress out of her attire before she heard a clear yes or no. Eventually, Tyrion traced a hand up her arm, his thumb running over her forearm. His shimmering blue gaze never left hers, not once.

“You are certain…” he breathed.

“Quite sure.” Sansa promised, her heart leaping into her throat. “But are you?” Sansa swallowed nervously past the lump forming in her throat.

With a deep, shaking exhale, her husband slowly nodded. “Yes. I am.” Sansa rested her forehead against his, her breath ghosting over his lips as he shivered in pleasure and both fear and exhilaration at what was about to happen. “We shall go slow tonight. Is that all right with you?” Sansa smiled at Tyrion, her smile gingerly tugging on her lips, and Tyrion could not help but feel drawn towards it. He wanted it to stay.

As her soft lips stretched even wider, his eyes drifted towards his wife’s, and he was surprised to see a look that mirrored his own. One of elation and terror. Elation at having found his soulmate, the one who he would spend the rest of his life in utter devotion to, never stray from, and terror at the thought of ever losing this celestial-like woman that now lay on top of the desk.

She glanced down at one of the paperweights in the shape of a red **X** as it brushed against her thigh. Sansa furrowed her brows into a frown and kicked at the map with her leg, shooting her bare foot out from underneath her purple silk gown and kicking the map she was almost laying on top of with a good swift kick. She noticed Tyrion looking, a strange little frown on his face. She grinned.

“It’s Ramsay’s desk,” she whispered into the shell of his ear, and she was not disappointed as she relished in the sound of his laughter. “This sort of revenge is even better than sheep shifting his bed,” she giggled, and let out a snort through her nose. "He won't know a thing, I don't think. I think we can be quiet," she giggled.

It was then that he knew he truly cared for her, perhaps even loved her.

He did not want to lose her. Tyrion did not want to turn into a random image that floated deep within the recesses of Sansa Stark’s memory one day. He did not want to be the smile that squeezed her chest somewhere far away if he were to ever die in some king’s battle someday soon. Tyrion did not want Sansa to leave him behind.

Where she went, he wanted to go too. Tyrion did not want Sansa to go. He wanted Sansa and her sweet, beautiful smile to stay.

She noticed him looking and smiled, biting her bottom lip, and sticking it out in a slight pout, quirking a brow at him.

“I want you to have me like you want me to stay. Convince me to stay with you if that is what you wish. I want you to make love to me like you mean it,” his wife whispered. “Love me, Tyrion? Please?” It was the use of the word please that ignited something deep within Tyrion. How her hand alit on Tyrion’s face, moving down past his bare and prominent collarbone. He let out a tiny moan as her gaze drifted downward towards his chest, at the dozens of hundreds of angry red and white scars, courtesy of both his Father, his sister and brother when they were much younger.

“Until the end of the world, wife. And after,” he promised, leaning down to capture her lips with his, careful to be gentle as he moved on top of her.

She was his wife, and if the day came where he ever hurt her, then he might as well slay himself. Already, his brain felt like it was on fire. His wife, with the hair like winter ember flames, a beautiful fire, his beautiful angel with the fingertips of flame that Tyrion knew that he did not deserve such a delectable creature as she in his life. Their little tryst on top of the desk in the barricaded library already felt warm as Tyrion heard Sansa gasp as her fingertips lightly traced down all of his scars. 

“You’re staring, Lady Sansa,” he commented, stifling a bemused smile as she blushed under the scrutiny of his gaze and made to turn away, a light pink blush speckling along Sansa’s cheeks as she squirmed beneath Tyrion. Sansa attempted to wriggle her way from out underneath him, but his hand shot out and slid across Sansa’s hips, stalling her movements. “I never claimed that I did not like it, wife,” he murmured, burying his face in the crook of her neck. He let out a groan as he could hear the hoarseness and desire in his own voice for the angel that lay on the mattress beneath him, as his free hand not gripping onto her waist slipped underneath the skirts of her purple gown, his fingers trailing along her smooth inner thighs delicately.

She was warm already as his fingers ghosted along the skin of her thighs, her body instinctively to her husband’s tender touch. “Do you trust me not to hurt you?” he asked her.

“With my life.” Her answer was immediate and left his wife’s lips before Tyrion had even completed asking his question. “Until the end of the world.”

Tyrion mutely nodded, swallowing with nervous anticipation. “Show me,” he encouraged, his fingers tightening on her thighs, raking down her legs as he practically growled with the sheer effort to restrain himself. “How you want it.” Tyrion could hear the urge and desperation in his voice, relishing in Sansa’s tiny little gasp of surprise as he leaned down for another passionate kiss. “Together,” he promised, as his lips captured Sansa’s gently, his movements slow, tender, loving.

The cold desolate library already felt warm. It was hard for him to hold back as he allowed himself to become lost in the sensation of loving his wife, an experience that he had heard Jaimie talk of in excruciatingly graphic detail regarding Cersei, though to Tyrion, that never sounded like love. Not like what the two of them were currently experiencing in the moment. Oh, he was well versed in the ways of sex and pleasure, but that was merely satisfying an urge, but this? This was different.

It was hard for him to make their moment last forever, but was that not always the way, so caught between the new sensations of their experience and extending a moment with his wife that he never wanted to end. He would be content to spend the remainder of his days on top of this wretched desk with Sansa Stark if she’d have him.

He loved so many things about her. How patient she was with him, though she too was as nervous as he was. The way that her mouth was soft as she gasped for breath when he would pull away from a kiss that was both soft and hard at the same time. Slowly, Tyrion ran his hands down his wife’s body. Her skin was flawless, smooth, perfect, soft on her hips, leaving a gentle trail of kisses down her neck and to her collarbones, hearing her light moans. Sansa’s breathing became cracked and uneven, the stars becoming novae in her eyes.

She twitched slightly as he drew away, rolling her head to one side, exposing the curve of her neck as the two of them moved in tandem on top of the desk that, Sansa knew if Ramsay were to find out what she had initiated, he would be furious, though the sweet, sweet of revenge was sweeter, though it did not stop her grin from forming as she grinned into the kiss that her husband planted on her lips, whispering things to her into the beautiful shell of her left ear, shuddering as he gently nipped at her earlobe, much as she had done to him but a few moments ago, and whispered something to his wife.

Something for her ears only, whispered words of love, promises that he would be with her forever, always by her side. Slowly, he ran his hands down her body. Her skin was flawless and smooth, soft on her hips as he spread her thighs with his fingers and the first moan left her lips, the sound half muffled.

When she kissed Tyrion, his brain lit on fire and the warmth spread throughout his entire body, the heat his wife gave off was scorching. Her kisses were both his salvation and his torment, his purpose, and his anguish. Tyrion lived for them and he knew he would die with them one day in old age after a long, healthy life together, the two of them, with the memory of them forever on his lips. He dedicated his life to being with Sansa Stark wholly on this night in the library, their safe haven for the night, for he knew that if he ever lost his wife, then he would lose himself and become incomplete. For she was the new half that made him whole.

He lowered his lips to hers, capturing her mouth in a greedy kiss. “It’s been a few weeks has it not, Sansa, beloved,” he whispered devilishly, a smirk on his handsome features. “I’ve missed our time together, love,” he said tenderly and quietly. His wife opened his mouth to speak, but he stopped her. “Shush,” he commanded, raising a gentle finger to her lips, shushing her. He continued with his efforts to please her, leaving a gentle trail of kisses down her neck and to her collarbones, hearing her whimpers and feeling her body shift beneath his. Sansa’s breathing became uneven, cracking, and she jerked forward as she climaxed, the stars becoming novae in her eyes.

His wife twitched slightly as he drew away, rolling her head to one side, exposing the curve of her neck, the beautiful shell of her ear, shuddering as he gently nipped her earlobe and whispered promises to her, promises of what’s to come in their moment. Her thighs were still parted beneath him as he entered her, thrusting greedily, her body wrapping around his shaft, all heat and moisture. She was warm, so warm, and when he’s inside her, he’s home. He’d make love to his wife every day if he could. Sansa made a sound in her throat but this time, just this time, he does not listen as he claims her, his hands wound tightly on the edges of the table before drifting to the back of her head, finding purchase in her hair, his fingers entangled in her hair, his hair falling in his eyes and shading everything.

His wife panted for breath, her breasts hitching with each breath she drew in, her body reacting to his touch, moving in sync with each of his thrusts. He let out a groan and buried his face in her hair as he climaxed.

For a moment, he stayed over his wife, his arms trembling slightly, then drew away and dressed quickly, to see Sansa standing upright, a dazed and stunned look in her heavily lidded cobalt eyes. He ran his hand down her thigh gently, feeling her tremble as his touch left a static frenzy in their wake, as he leaned down and kissed her gently. “Love me?” she whispered, a lascivious smile that he can’t help but smile back at and return lovingly. “Always,” he promised lovingly, leaning up to kiss her again. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ll always love you. Until the world ends, and after.”

That was good enough for her. Sansa met Tyrion’s piercing blue eyes and blushed, though she did not avert her gaze. Growing up, as a little girl, Sansa used to believe glacier eyes were ice cold, that they knew no warmth and never shared loved. That's what she _used_ to believe. But now she knew as she looked into her husband’s eyes the truth.

That the hottest fires always burn blue.


	24. Sansa

Fair warning: An Introduction to an original character lies within. Why? Because Sansa needs a friend, that’s why. I know most people don’t like OC’s for reasons I can’t quite fathom, they've never bothered me, but given this is Sansa/Tyrion’s story and not my OC’s that you’ll meet in this chapter, I feel like it’s okay to introduce her, esp. since she plays a pivotal part to the plot later in getting things moving along, and I’m kind of having trouble deciding on who to pair her with, Ser Bronn or Theon. I know it would be difficult for Theon without his…well, I won’t say it, but still. I’ve always liked Theon and wished him to have a little semblance of peace, and Bronn is pretty great because of how nuts he is! Reader suggestions are of course, welcome! 😊

* * *

** Sansa **

The egg yolk sun poured through the cracks in the window’s shutters and awaited entrance into Sansa’s eyes. For a split second, she didn’t know who she was or _where_ she was. She glanced over to the left and then she remembered. They were in Sansa’s old bedroom, and she almost lazily opened her eyes, allowing her form to sink into her mattress, the only warmth against such frigid cold air was the soft goose feather down blanket Tyrion had found for her that she burrowed underneath, though the moment she realized the bed felt lighter without her husband’s presence, her eyes flung open and she sat upright in the bed, hair tousled, clutching the blanket around her nude form.

Her sight still wished for the darkness of the night, she sleepily rubbed the dreams away, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand and sat up straighter, resting her head against her pillow as she propped it against the headboard. Had last night been simply a dream? Sansa furrowed her brows into a frown and made no move to get up at all.

“Then let it be a good dream, then,” she whispered, collapsing back against the mattress and letting her red waves splay out on either side of her like a fan, her hands intertwining together and coming to rest on her stomach. A small smile crept on Sansa’s face as she remembered Tyrion whispering words of love into her, the words exchanged between the two of them last night once they’d come back here. Not that she hadn’t enjoyed enacting sweet, blissful revenge by making love to her husband on top of Bolton’s desk, but admittedly, their bed was much more comfortable and gentler on her back, which still ached from last night. Sansa’s soft smile widened as she stared at the ceiling as a memory of last night flitted through her head. _“Sansa…”_ Her husband’s voice had been low and heavy with desire, husky, almost, even.

_“Yes?”_ Sansa couldn’t remember all of last night, only the best parts of it.

_“Don’t…don’t stop, keep going, please…”_ Tyrion had practically begged her, and she could not resist it when her husband had spoken to her like that, his voice low and soft. It had been dark in her bedroom in the east wing, and she couldn’t really see him, but she could feel him squirm beneath her as he struggled to make their time spent beneath the sheets together last longer. Every little movement, the sound of his breathing increasing and slowing down. Sansa knew it was hard for him to resist, to hold back his urge. His surprisingly strong hands had come up to grip up painfully tight on her waist with each shift, each little movement she made.

Sansa had not stopped, she had done as her lord husband had asked of her, and he was patient with her, and gentle. Though the walls of her bedroom were of strong, durable stone slab, they had still attempted to finish as quietly as they could given the lateness of the hour, Sansa’s mind reeling from the intense pleasure waves that rocked her to the core, and she had nestled in Tyrion’s arms after head, her head resting against his chest. “ _Love me, husband?_ ” she had whispered, a soft smile forming.

She had remembered his response, for how could she not? “ _Always_.” And then a gentle kiss, first on her lips and then her forehead, and they’d fallen asleep. But she had expected, hoped, that he would be here when she woke up.

Sansa furrowed her brows into a frown and glanced wildly about the room for her gown and smallclothes, which she had remembered haphazardly kicking off her shoes and Tyrion struggling to be gentle with the lacings of her dress. She sighed as she finally spotted a gown that she could not remember laying out last night and briefly she wondered if her lord husband had set it out for her. Wrapping the blanket around her form to preserve her modesty, she rose, wincing at the soreness around her breasts and the pit between her legs as she padded barefoot and silent over towards the chair and picked up the gown at the neckline with gentle fingers.

A simple dark blue velvet gown with long flared tow sleeves and a dark cape lined with wolf fur near the hood’s lining. A gorgeous thing, and not one she recognized. She wondered if Tyrion had somehow bought it for her. Sansa had just finished dressing when a light rapping of knuckles came upon her closed chamber door, and Sansa swiveled her head back slightly to look at the new arrival, half expecting to see the kennel maester’s daughter, and was about to dismiss her immediately, but she felt the tension leave her shoulders and her facial muscles relax as a new serving wench, one she’d not seen before and a girl who appeared to be a year or two younger than her, perhaps, enter the room, piercing gray eyes downcast and a light pink blush speckling along her cheeks. Sansa blinked owlishly at the kitchen wench, startled by her.

“Milady Sansa,” murmured the kitchen wench, her blush deepening as she lifted the gaze and set down the heavily laden breakfast tray she had been carrying. “Lord Tyrion and Lord Roose and his son require your attendance in the mess hall for breakfast. I—I am afraid it is a matter of utmost urgency. They have insisted that you hurry, milady.”

“Then why bring the tray up if I am to dine with the men?” she asked, gesturing towards the tray which contained a half loaf of bread, a rind of cheese, and some boiled mutton, good meat, and she wondered if the castle had food stores if worse came to worse in the event Winterfell was to become snowed in. It had happened before.

If it was possible, the young blonde’s blush deepened and she promptly looked away, painfully twisting her fingers together, biting the wall of her cheek. “Milords Tyrion and Roose did not know what you might like to eat, so I brought up something just in case. Your husband said you had not eaten at all last night, so you’d be hungry.”

That was a good enough explanation for her, Sansa supposed, and she decided to drop the matter, seeing how it was clearly making Phoebe uncomfortable. Sansa knew it was wrong to converse with the castle’s servants in this manner, though she had a horrible sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that Lord Roose and the rest of the Bolton family, except for perhaps maybe Lady Walda, who seemed kind enough, treated their servants with hatred and mockery, and Sansa knew that she and Tyrion were not about to continue that scorn, for she knew that without the kitchen wenches and the soldiers and sentries and bannermen, even the squires, that this castle would not stand on its own, nor would it last without their help. Everyone played an integral role.

“What is your name?” Sansa asked kindly, giving the kitchen girl a quick once over and furrowed her brows in contemplative thought as the petite little blonde with almost spritely, elfin-like features lowered her gaze again and clasped her fingers together nervously and came to rest them around her middle, actively averting Sansa’s gaze as if afraid to look the last surviving Stark girl in the eyes, which she thought was unnecessary and not at all called for. Sansa watched with something akin to pity intermingled with amusement in her eyes as the blonde startled and let out a muffled little squeak of terror at being asked such a question, though Sansa supposed she could not blame this girl for reacting in such a strange and unorthodox way, for she doubted the Boltons knew the names of their servants, deeming it unimportant, most likely.

“Phoebe, Lady Sansa, Milord Roose Bolton sent for me to wake you if you were not already roused, a—and I was told to tell you that I am lady Myranda’s replacement for you,” the little blonde a head shorter than her finally answered rather sheepishly.

“And your surname?” Sansa prodded, genuinely curious now, and she could not help but to feel an overwhelming sense of relief at knowing any further contact with the kennel master’s daughter would now be limited, as she felt her shoulders slump and sag with utmost relief at not having to deal with Myranda, hopefully ever again, and she supposed that in time, she could trust this new little blonde. She was cute, kind, and quite pretty. Maybe she could be a friend. Something that Sansa did not even know she missed until she lacked it.

The little blonde bit her bottom lip and stuck it out in a pout, seeming to hesitate in deciding whether or not to tell her lady her full name. At last, she relented. “Phoebe Snow, Lady Stark.”

The blonde fell silent and waited, painfully wringing her hands together in a nervous sort of anticipation. Sansa, who had been about to take a sip of water from the chalice the new serving girl had just finished pouring for her, coughed, choking and spluttering and promptly set the cup down and felt her body involuntarily stiffen as the petite blonde woman clapped Sansa on the back, not seeming to take any offense or acknowledging that she had touched Sansa without any permission.

“I—th—that’s…b—but how are you here, like…like _this_? F—forgive me, Phoebe, but I guess I did not e—expect you to be a—a Snow…”but her voice trailed off and she could not finish her sentence that she so desperately wanted to ask, and Sansa blearily lifted her head once her coughing fit had subsided and for perhaps the first time since this girl had entered her bedchamber and got a good look at her, her first true good look at someone who she could hopefully call a friend to her in this wretched place.

Her _first_ thought was that perhaps the girl was lying, for how could she be a Snow when she had the golden hair of a Lannister? Her hair the color of golden wheat, was cropped short, brutally short, as short as King Joffrey’s had been at the time of his gruesome death, and the golden hues glinted in the light that the warm fire in the hearth sent its light and warmth out into their cold desolate bedchambers, and her hair was a thousand shades of gold that made mosaics in the warm light from the fireplace.

It wasn't that bland color that was just a shade nicer than the white of old age, it was streaked with warm reddish hues and butterscotch. It gave her some warmth, complementing her pale face rather than making her look washed-out, and when she moved away from the fireplace to turn back towards the breakfast tray she’d carried all the way up to Lady Sansa and Lord Tyrion’s room, Sansa marveled and watched as the girl’s hair almost seemed to change hues and become a rich coppery strawberry blonde.

The girl’s bangs fell in wisps and stray strands, ending just above delicately shaped and arched brows. She seemed…almost entirely too well put together for a mere servant, which immediately raised Sansa’s suspicions and she quirked a brow her way.

Then as Phoebe Snow turned to look Sansa’s way she found herself surprised all over again, her eyes were not the watery blue she’d expected, they were a brilliant, glistening gray, and reminded Sansa of ashes and smoke blowing in the wind coming from a fire that burned everything to the ground. They were intense, coming from that fire that burned deep within the girl’s soul. They glistened brightly, cold, and metallic, rivalling the most excellently polished suit of armor. The sclerae that surrounded them were pristine, untouched by red. They were pure. They were cold. They were beautiful. At first, Sansa thought to call Phoebe Snow’s eyes ‘silver’ or ‘gray’, but then she realized that was just simply not good enough to describe the wench’s eyes.

Neither word did them justice. They were so solid, so bright, the exact lustrous color of a polished shard of metal. If you looked closer, like he was just now, you'd see the swirls of glittering onyx black and tinges of blue at the edges. They weren't monochrome or boring. That had simply been Sansa’s terrible judgement.

They were beautiful. Phoebe Snow wore the attire of servant’s garb, a simple brown linen dress with long, close fitting sleeves and a wide skirt, and a simple pair of brown boots on her feet. Surprisingly enough, given that she had surmised the girl worked in the kitchens, her dress was much too clean for her to be a simple kitchen wench like the girl was claiming to be, and the girl had turned her back on Sansa for a moment to readjust her headscarf, knotting the notch that little bit tighter so it would not come loose while she worked.

She turned back towards Sansa and took the emptied breakfast tray from the small wooden table she’d set it upon. “You should eat quickly, milady,” Phoebe murmured, “for I would not want to keep the young Master waiting.” There was a beat. A pause, and Sansa blinked owlishly at the young Snow girl as her blonde brows furrowed into a frown and her lips pursed into a thin, rigid, tight line. “Though you ask me, Milord Ramsay deserves to be kept waiting, vicious bastard,” she grumbled darkly, shaking her head in disgust, and almost as if on cue, a loud guttural roar from a room somewhere down below her erupted and rent the otherwise silent early morning air. She let out a muffled squeak and grabbed the tin flagon of wine. “If you will pardon me, Lady Stark, Lord Tyrion and Lord Roose are awaiting your presence in the mess hall, a—and I should go and see what Master Ramsay wants.”

The petite blonde turned to leave, a hand on the doorway to steady herself, when something about the blonde’s tone caught Sansa off guard and she called after her.

“Wait! Don’t!” Sansa pleaded; a hand outstretched as though she thought that might prevent her new handmaiden from leaving her side. There were so few people here in Winterfell that she could trust aside from her husband, and Ser Bronn, so just the thought of the possibility that she _might_ be able to make a friend overjoyed her. It mattered not that she was a Snow, or that she was Sansa’s new handmaiden, the differences in class and societal rank did not bother in the slightest. She drew in a bated breath and held it; unaware she had released it until she heard herself exhale slowly.

She watched as Phoebe Snow slowly turned around, a quizzical look in her gray eyes, though her face remained impassive, Sansa could read it in the wench’s eyes, she was curious as to why Sansa had stopped her, and both women winced as another loud roar from Ramsay coming from below shattered the uneasy silence between the girls.

“Wh—what is it, Lady Sansa?” Phoebe’s voice escaped her as a low muffled whimper, no doubt she was thinking of whatever punishment Ramsay Bolton would inflict upon her if she was even another second late with the man’s wine, but Sansa had to ask the one question that was burning on the tip of her tongue, begging to be asked.

“Walk me with later out in the courtyard for some fresh air?” Sansa asked, biting her bottom lip in anticipation, and she emanated a tense exhale of relief as the blonde, seemingly taken aback by her request, blinked owlishly once or twice in astonishment, but then she nodded and dipped her head in acknowledgment and offered a little curtsy.

“If that is what my lady wishes, then so it shall be, Lady Sansa. And…Lady Sansa?” she asked, her free hand not clutching onto the tin flagon of red Dornish wine, a strange sympathetic little smile on her face. “Perhaps it is not my place to speak out in such matters but….” She paused. And then, “what the Boltons did to your family was a terrible crime, one that deserves to be punished. I hope that justice towards your family will be served. The North Remembers. We have not forgotten your parents, milady.”

Sansa mutely nodded, feeling a sudden moisture glistening in her eyes as she rapidly blinked to fight back tears. Phoebe Snow offered a shy smile and a small wave before another guttural roar that sounded more like a wounded animal than that of the bastard son of Lord Roose Bolton elicited a terrified little squeak from Sansa’s new handmaiden. Politely offering Sansa another curtsy, Phoebe grabbed the tin flagon of wine, careful not to spill so much as a single drop on the cobblestones beneath her feet, and with her other free had not clutching onto the flagon as though her very life depended on it, she lifted the skirts of her simple brown dress and quit the scene.

She blinked, staring after the doorway at the space where the young blonde had stood only moments before, already disappointed at feeling the girl’s presence in the room. Sansa had known Phoebe Snow for all of a precious ten minutes at best, and already, the spritely little thing that looked like one of those nymphs in the fairy tales her Father and Mother used to tell her as a little girl was already leaving an impression on her. Smiling softly and allowing a soft chuckle to escape her lips, Sansa let out a tiny sigh as she draped her fur-lined cloak over her arm and swiped a chunk of cheese off the breakfast tray that her new handmaiden had left for her. She snorted and rolled her eyes as she strolled down the silent hallways, realizing that Ramsay’s screaming, and shouting fit had stopped.

_A child. A tall child, like a little boy throwing a temper tantrum is what he is,_ Sansa thought darkly to herself, her brows furrowed in contemplative thought. _Anyone that can tame the mad beast is someone worth befriending in my book_ , she thought, letting out a sigh as she walked the desolate hallways towards the stairwell. Sansa felt her frown deepen as she glanced at the thick walls of stone.

If this fortress of stone, built on blood and bone, could talk, she knew that she would beg for deafness. Though she could not hear the whispers of the ages, tales of lives lost and deaths of agony that no one should ever feel, they remained cloistered in the castle’s walls, its dungeons, and echoed around staircases of twisted rock. So much to say and no ears willing to listen, no soul willing to feel the torment that lay within, except for Sansa. There was absolute stillness within the wall of Winterfell, a sensation that Sansa thought eerie. Where were the Bolton soldiers? The serving girls? The hearth keeps?

No air stirred in the corridor, and Sansa felt her blood chill to ice in her veins. Not a sound could be heard either close at hand or in the far off distance.

Even her own breath seemed to die as soon as it left her mouth, and she could not quite shake the sensation nor the tension from her shoulders that someone unknown person or persons was watching her movements. It was an eerie sort of tranquility, so instead of being soothed, her senses became heightened. Sansa felt like the prey even though no predator could be detected. It was as if her small world within Winterfell’s walls were encased in a cocoon, a bubble, and there was no way for her to escape from her fate this morning.

“Lady Sansa!” A male’s voice interrupted Sansa’s thoughts, and she jumped, startled, cursing herself and biting the wall of her cheek as she slowly turned at the waist to better greet the voice that had temporarily commanded her attentions. She exhaled.

“Ser Bronn,” she murmured courteously, dropping into a low curtsy. “What can I do for you this morning, sellsword?” she chuckled, accepting Bronn’s arm as she allowed herself to be led towards the mess hall, to where Lord Tyrion and Lord Roose Bolton were still no doubt waiting upon Lady Sansa to break their fast with her now.

Sansa stifled her grin as she clutched onto Bronn’s arm. The sellsword and personal guard of Lord Tyrion and herself was somewhat too tall for his build. Were he a few inches shorter, he would be all the more handsome for it. It was as if he stopped growing, only to be stretched on a pair of racks in the dungeons.

Ser Bronn was a clear head higher than most men she knew and would consider them tall. Somehow, he wasn’t lanky, though. There was bulk on Bronn too; muscles beneath his tunic and jerkin. Sansa could not help but to wonder just how many jokes and comments Bronn got on the daily about his stature, jibes about ‘the air being thin up here,’. Though his legs moved slowly to match Sansa’s footfalls, he was still walking as fast as any servant within Winterfell, each stride carrying him and Sansa closer and closer to the mess hall.

She could not remember a time when she had seen Ser Bronn ruffled, and this morning was no exception. His voice as he spoke to Sansa had a slight husky drawl and every step that he took was precise as he sauntered towards the banquet hall, the pace of their footfalls not changing one iota. That’s just the way the sellsword was, born calm.

Sansa knew there was no changing the man, not that she and Tyrion wanted to. Bronn’s boots made a rhythmical noise against the floor beneath their feet, solid and regular like a soldier’s footsteps ought to be. His face was lined and careworn, stern, and yet peaceful as he shifted his scabbard to his other hip. High cheekbones, symmetrical.

Bronn had deep dark eyes and tanned skin. He was still slender despite his years, toned and not at all stooped. Good news for him there. Around his eyes were laughter lines in just the right amount. She supposed that Ser Bronn was often happy, but at this moment in time, the man was deadly serious, which frightened Sansa more than a little.

In an effort to break the silence, Sansa coughed once to clear her throat and dared to peek back over her shoulder towards one of the castle’s marble columns, frowning.

Nothing. She could have sworn she saw the briefest flickers of movement as someone darted behind it, but as she squinted her eyes, having to crane her neck slightly forward in order to better see, Sansa felt her face become crestfallen as she looked.

There was no one there. “Hmm,” she murmured, her frown deepening as her eyebrows came together in quandary as she forced herself to turn back around to face Bronn, who had noticed where she was looking and had followed her gaze. “I thought…” Sansa could have sworn she saw someone watching her and Ser Bronn.

She was sure, she was sure, yes, but without any viable proof, it was just a suspicion.

Sansa coughed again nervously to clear her throat and attempted to quell the uncomfortable silence. “I suppose I should congratulate you on your upcoming marriage to Lollys Stokeworth, Bronn. You shall be a wonderful husband, I think! Though…” Sansa paused and tapped her chin thoughtfully. “She doesn’t seem to strike me as your type of girl, Ser Bronn,” she joked, craning her neck up to look at Bronn.

“I wouldn’t say I have a single sort of girl, Lady Stark,” he retorted back immediately.

“But she’s dimwitted, Bronn!” Sansa laughed, a snort escaping through her nose as she clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle her giggling fit.

He rolled his eyes playfully and paused outside of the wide oaken double doors of the banquet halls. “If I wanted wits, I woulda married you, Stark. Stokeworth is a sweet enough girl. Has a nice ass and a good pair of tits, I’ll give her that,” he snapped, huffing in frustration, and relinquishing his arm upon Sansa’s arm as they lingered by the doors. “There was a reason I came to fetch you. Lords Roose and Ramsay are in a uh…bit of a ‘mood’, shall we say,” he growled irritably, lowering his voice to a whisper, low enough so that only Sansa could hear him. “I just advise you to be cautious around them, and that means,” here, he bared his teeth and Sansa shivered involuntarily, “watching that pretty little mouth of yours. When your parents were still alive, perhaps you might have been able to get away with your silly little outbursts, but here under the Boltons’ command, it is very different, and I just advise you to be careful, and…”

He hesitated, turning away for a moment to compose himself, and when he turned back around to face Sansa, she was surprised at the grim expression on Bronn’s face. Ser Bronn bit his bottom lip and after a moment he let out an exasperated sigh.

“Winterfell is snowed in.”

“What?!?” Sansa felt her eyes widen unnaturally large, as round as a dinner plate, in shock as she glared after Bronn, who startled a bit at seeing Sansa’s panicked expression. Sansa let out a sardonic laugh and shook her head in disgust as Ser Bronn opened the door towards the banquet hall for her. Now she was well and truly trapped here.

_With Ramsay_. Sansa swallowed nervously and followed Bronn into the mess, slamming the banquet hall’s door behind her, so loud that it rattled on its hinges.

Neither party bothered to look back behind them as they entered Winterfell’s mess hall, for if they had, they would have seen the slightly hunched and stooped over figure of Reek scraping his nails down the stone pillar of the column he’d ducked behind.


	25. Phoebe

**A/N: Only 2 chapters with her in it so far and already little Phoebe is growing on me as a character.** **  
**

* * *

** Phoebe  **

“M—Master requests that wine be brought to his chambers. H—he, h—has asked for you, Ph--Phoebe.” The man who had earned the nickname Reek from Master Bolton and from the others around the castle unfortunate enough to come within fifty feet of the creature and endure his unpleasant stench announced, trepidation, fear, displeasure, and disgust all laced in the single broken up sentence by the young man’s stammers and his flushed expression.

The man formerly known as Theon Greyjoy was now perhaps the ugliest creature that Phoebe Snow had ever seen in her life or in her nightmares. The cretin standing in front of her cowering in the corner was as wide as he was tall, making him look somehow short but imposing at the same time.

His dark hair, formerly thick and luscious, was now brutally shaved close to the scalp by Ramsay and was in the midst of growing back, still little more than stubble atop his scalp. She froze as she dared to meet the traitor’s gaze, her knuckles going white as she clenched the edges of the small wooden side table in the kitchens to steady herself. She stared at Reek, or more specifically, the scars littered across his face and what she assumed had been but a perfectly good nose an hour or two ago, since she had last seen the man slither into Master’s chambers and when he stepped forward, his gait was lame and odd, limping.

Phoebe could see it in his eyes that Reek was a broken shell of a man. He had once led an army, a battalion of men at his side. An Iron Borne true. He was proud. Yet, here he stood with tears threatening to spill out of the corners of his eyes. Reek bore the expression of a child who had been told his mother was gone. Reek never spoke of his battles, of his life as Theon Greyjoy.

Yet, as Phoebe lingered in the doorway that separated the kitchens from the corridor of the East Wing, where Master Bolton’s quarters rested at the end of the hall, Reek was bereft. Shaking. Trembling like a leaf with no sign of stopping. “Please,” he begged, and Phoebe had reduced poor Reek to begging.

One moment, her piercing gray eyes were fixated obediently on Reek’s red-rimmed eyes, and then the next, they were rested on the bloody mess that had been a perfectly ordinary nose only an hour or two before. So ordinary, in fact, that Phoebe could not recall what it looked like. And then his walk was lame.

Reek’s gait that was smooth only this morning was now faltering and uneven. The young blonde stifled a groan and bit the wall of her cheek and gingerly set the tin flagon of wine down on the nearest side table in the servants’ quarters. “Can not you do it, Reek?” she begged desperately.

 _By the gods and seven hells below, why me?_ Phoebe blinked back tears as the creature in front of her shook his head no vehemently back and forth, and she knew she would have to do this. _Are the gods so cruel as to make this my fate? Why are all the gods such vicious cunts?_ She bit the wall of her cheek.

Phoebe gave a curt nod, not wanting to keep Master Ramsay waiting, and yet at the same time, the man was a vicious hotheaded fucking cunt who, in her mind, deserved to starve and choke on his own fluids. But it was a long walk from the wine cellars to his chambers, and he’d already called for wine thrice.

The young blonde resisted the urge to crinkle her nose in disgust and gagged a little as Reek passed her by, not because Phoebe was repulsed by her haggard appearance, but because of the stench. The man smelled like rotten eggs, rancid old cheese, like nothing in all of Westeros, a revolting, gut-wrenching, vomit-inducing mess, though several good, long, hot baths would take care of that.

Phoebe blinked back briny tears and felt her breaths catch in her throat as Reek blearily lifted his head and stared at the kitchen wench through glazed eyes. “M—Master specifically a—asked for you. Th—the only way to survive in this fucking house I—is to do as they say. You k— _know_ this, a—and you should go before he gets e—even a—angrier,” he stammered hastily, nervously.

She furrowed her brows into a frown as she glowered at Reek, the former Iron Islands young man who had since lost the traces of boyhood. She took in his appearance and Phoebe heard herself emanated a tense, nervous exhale. Reek did not seem all that much older than her, maybe a year or two, at best, though the fact that he no longer had his cock was rather problematic.

Phoebe watched as Reek ran his hands through the stubble that stretched over his scalp, thicker than a freshly harvested field. It was coarse to the touch.

All traces of softness was gone. His shoulders hunched together like he was trying to disappear inside himself. Even his eyes seemed to be attempting to retreat inside his head. It was her job to welcome any nobles or ladies that came to Winterfell, though that did not mean she could not be nice to her fellow servants, and so she made towards him with an outstretched hand and the kind of smile she usually reserved for her cousins. He startled like a deer in the woods, almost toppling as he took a large step backward. He brushed imaginary dirt from his filthy tunic and let his face fall with gravity again.

Phoebe stepped aside while he slunk past not looking left or right. She huffed in frustration, her fear manifesting as the hot-sparks of anger as she swiped the tin flagon of red Dornish wine off the wooden table.

The young blonde went as slowly as possible, at as petty a face as her feet would allow, wanting to delay the inevitable as long as possible. She glanced around the suits of armor and the coat of arms displayed proudly on the walls and suppressed a shudder as a cold chill traveled down her spine, chilling her.

The word ‘eerie’ to describe Winterfell ever since the siege was an understatement. In the shadow, cast by the castle walls, a chill crept over the grass outside as she paused to gaze out the window and stared out at the snow. Every flurry of snow caught Phoebe Snow’s attention, sparked her mind to turn faster, her mind was screaming at her to turn around go back, but she knew that she could not. The crumbling, cracked rocks were layered on top of each other, caked with mosses and dried blood. Winterfell under the Boltons’ reign was slowly crumbling, slower than the eye could detect over a lifetime.

Only the sun and moon witnessed the steady deterioration of what was once a magnificent threshold when the Starks, Lord Eddard, and Lady Catelyn, were alive, once the lifeblood of an ancient, noble, and proud family, now faded.

Within these very walls, Phoebe knew that her safety was not guaranteed but enhanced and there was some protection from the driving blizzard that raged war on the elements outside the castle walls. The castle rested like an old man of the hill, the moonlight shining of his craggy, and tumble down face.

Phoebe Snow swallowed hard past the lump in her throat as the silence outside Ramsay Bolton’s personal quarters was like a poisonous void, needing to be filled with sounds, anything. The silence seeped into the kitchen wench’s pores like a poison that paralyzed her from either speech or movement yet…

She had arrived at his study. She could stall no longer. Taking a deep breath, she ran a hand through her cropped blonde hair, wincing as her hand grazed along the back of the column of her neck, where there should have been hair. A punishment from Master last week for daring to accidentally spill his food.

Phoebe raised a shaking hand, her knuckles bone-white and knocked.

_By the Light of the Seven, let me away from here. I’ll…I’ll do anything…_

“Enter.” Ramsay’s voice was cold and impatient. Bracing herself, Phoebe gingerly pushed the door open, careful to hold the flagon steady to not spill it.

The kitchen wench was instantly hit with a sense of warmness. Glancing across the room, she saw he or one of the other girls had lit a fire in the mantle.

The fireplace in the room mimicked the warmth of the day in spring. Ramsay’s features were half-illuminated by the flickering light from the fire’s embers, the only source of light in the room. No other candles were lit, and the curtains were drawn across the window. The flames flickered lazily in the hearth.

Though the air wasn’t necessarily smoky, she could smell the pine as the wood burned, just a faint fragrance that filled her nostrils. She blinked.

Master Bolton’s piercing stare felt like ice had frozen her heart to ice as his cold gaze. Quickly, Phoebe Snow averted her gaze, afraid to look him in the square.

She felt her face pale in agony as his condescending gaze admired her slender form in her simple brown dress, and her cheeks redden as his eyes wandered up to her blonde hair—clearly admiring his handiwork from last week. “You summoned me, milord?” she found herself asking, unable to disguise the note of bitterness and hatred in her voice. “What is it my lord requires? More wine, perhaps?” she growled through gritted teeth, praying with all her might she could remain calm and collected. For her sake. Her life depended on it.

“Please,” he replied, his tone courteous and teasing at the same time. She reluctantly moved forward with the flagon and poured until he bade her stop.

Phoebe felt his gaze pierce the back of her skull as she turned away briefly to avoid watching him as he drank. “Will that be all, my lord?” she asked timidly, feeling the slight catch in her breath at his movement as he continued to study her features, watching for any sign of hesitation or fear.

Ramsay set the cup down, his brown eyes twinkling dangerously. “Do you know what my father said to me the other night, little dove?” he asked his tone cold and testing her. Phoebe froze.

She hadn’t anticipated being asked the question. _Of course, I remember_ , she thought darkly. _I was there, remember, Ramsay? I watched you flay a man alive with your own two hands._

“No, sir,” she lied, dipping her head, fear in her voice.

“He said to me, ‘Ramsay, your faults as a son is my failures as a father.’ Think of, my lovely. To be told something so cruel. But my father was wrong,” he spat bitterly, glancing into the fireplace before turning his attention back to her. “He never could see what I am. I, I am nothing more than a visionary with a simple dream. I do not care what you think of me as long as you obey me. I acknowledge that I have...odd methods, but they work. I know what life should be like and I understand that many creatures and things are inferior to me. In my position, it simply mercy. I know that if I don’t save them with the wonders of death, they will die with the horrors of life.” He finished and fell silent, musing.

Phoebe was rendered speechless, unable to speak. When she finally found her voice again, it was trembling. “Will there be anything else my lord requires of me?”

“You’re very pretty, my lovely,” he spoke up demurely. “Your beauty is truly unmatched. No other woman will do. You know, I was right to like you, my dear. Have you enjoyed working for me?” he asked, studying her for her reaction.

But gods, how she hated him. _One day, I’ll be free of you, Ramsay_. “I—yes,” she responded, a little too quickly. “I have.” 

“The heads on the pikes in the yard don’t bother you?” he asked, his tone light and pleasant as he carefully gauged her reaction. Phoebe’s fear of Ramsay was her challenge and her demon to slay, for it will come for her until she does, unannounced and gnarly. Her only way out was to order her brain to function, to demand solutions instead of this constant nagging anxiety.

So, though it felt as though her bones have no more strength and her muscles are out of power, she still had the option to remain still, to be quiet enough to choose how to fight her way out of this predicament. Right now, the only way out was to play his damn game and stay alive. So be it. She suppressed a shudder and turned away for a moment.

Phoebe had always hated the pikes. The enemies of the great Bolton house, displayed on stakes for all to see, the whites of their eyes rolled back into their heads, their mouths open in a silent scream, their final noises in the last moments of their precious lives before going to meet their gods. had demanded a grand display of domination be displayed for who would dare to cross or question him. No one dared disobey Ramsay.

“No,” she answered shakily.

“You know what happens to our house’s enemies, my dear. You’ve seen it firsthand for yourself.”

“My duty is to serve this house and its family, Milord Bolton,” she hissed, whispering it through gritted teeth, feeling very much she might vomit soon.

“Good,” he smirked. “It would be a shame if I were to find out you had intentions of thinking of trying to leave, Snow. You are one of my favorites…”

“My lord is too kind,” Phoebe murmured quietly.

God how she wished she were anywhere else. Anywhere but here. If she could be with anyone but Ramsay. Ramsay set the cup down, his dark eyes sparkling dangerously as an idea lit in his brain.

A game. One he’d longed to play with Phoebe since the beginning of her servitude to the Bolton family name. “ _Kind_. That is what you think of me, little dove, you are sorely mistaken. Allow me to show you how…kind I can be,” he echoed sarcastically, smirking as he raised the cup to his lips and drained the rest of the merlot. “More wine,” he demanded, setting the cup down, leaving it in front of him. “ _Now_ ,” he snapped. She flinched only slightly and moved from the end of the table to stand next to him, unnerved by the closeness.

Phoebe tried to step away as soon as she finished pouring wine into his goblet, but Ramsay was faster, catching the wrist of her outstretched hand that held the flagon. “Set it down, little dove. What on earth is your rush? You just got here, don’t you think that you and I should have a little… _fun_ , first?” he ordered calmly, doing his best to control his urge, but she wasn’t fooled.

 _Oh, God..._ Phoebe swallowed nervously past the lump in her throat.

Ramsay grabbed her other wrist at her side and yanked her abruptly into his lap, setting her on his knee. He ran a smooth hand over the fabric of her dress. Fear trickled coldly down Phoebe’s spine.

She knew all too well what happened to the girls who failed to obey Ramsay and the girls that bored him. She knows she has to play his game, unsure of how to win. “Such lovely white skin you have. A pretty picture, indeed. I wonder if you will still think me kind when I’m done with you,” he murmured against the column of her throat, running his thumb over her prominent collarbone. Phoebe repressed the urge to shudder. “Surely you know what happens when a woman fails to do what I tell them.”

He almost hated to ruin her skin. _Almost_. Ramsay had noticed the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

 _Goddamn it_. _This just proves my theory that the gods are vicious cunts, to curse me with this life for myself_. She cursed herself for being so vulnerable.

“I do,” she answered curtly, her eyes clouding over with hatred. She knew all too well what happened to those poor girls. Some of them still had their heads displayed on pikes out in the front yard, displayed violently for all of his enemies to see. The whites of their eyes rolled back into their heads, their mouths open in an eternal silent scream, their last noise.

“Are you frightened?” he asked bluntly.

“No, my lord,” she lied demurely, her voice a purr.

“No?” he mocked, teasing her. “I think you are lying, little Phoebe Snow. And you know I _hate_ liars, so I will ask you again. You seem very frightened to me. I can feel your heartbeat here, hear it pound and flutter so. That does not sound like the heartbeat of a woman who is calm, sweet thing,” he replied, one hand snaked around her waist. Ramsay pressed his thumb beneath her pulse, fluttering wildly beneath her skin. “Say my name,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

“N—m—my…my lord, I don’t think this is a good idea!” she protested. “I want to hear you say it.” His voice had grown dangerously soft and quiet. She almost wished he would shout. She could handle it when he shouted at her when he raged. But it was his moments of quietness like this that worried her the most. Ramsay was unpredictable, volatile. Phoebe knew she had no choice.

“Ramsay,” she acquiesced quietly, her voice soft like a gentle breeze. She brought her gray eyes up to meet his darkened ones. His blue eyes were beautiful, although they lacked warmth and kindness. They were the sky and fire all at once whenever he was angry. How she ever reduce something so spellbinding to one word, when colors invited her to marvel in their simplicity?

But there was something else there. Something glistening, shining brilliantly.

Lust and desire for her. The need for power and control. Phoebe fought back the urge to claw at his eyes as Ramsay brushed his lips against hers, just so, kissing her lightly. A test—not of consent as consent was strictly optional and Ramsay was giving her no choice in the matter, but a test of her loyalties that she claimed to swear to the Bolton House. Phoebe felt her body tense and hesitate, feeling her natural instinct to his touch to recoil and jerk away in disgust and flee from the room, but she could feel his grip tighten on her wrist. Hard enough to break it if he so desired, as he had done to her two fingers once before.

She was a monster, to go along with this. Ramsay extended his grip on Phoebe’s chin. She made a small noise as Ramsay’s grip tightened further and pulled away. He drank in her furious and flushed expression while maintaining his vice grip on her jaw. Phoebe gazed at him defiantly, her gray eyes clouded over with a burning fury at her predicament, and at him.

She hated herself and she hated him for her do this. Ramsay smiled. He reluctantly released his grip on her jaw, admiring the marks already blooming beneath his touch. He pressed a chaste kiss to one of them.

“Beautiful,” he murmured quietly. “You’re going to be even more beautiful when I’m through with you, my love, my angel, you are like a blank canvas, dear, my...new muse, my masterpiece, if you will,” he crooned. Ramsay wrapped a hand in her cropped blonde hair and pulled her head back sharply, exposing the line of her neck. Ramsay groaned as she shifted and ground his growing hardness, one of his hands finding purchase in her hair, running his fingers through her blonde wisps and stray strands.

Phoebe vowed that she would never have long hair ever again if this was what men were going to do to her. His fingers were entwined in her hair like a spider, creeping and crawling and enjoying the softness of her hair a little _too_ much. He loved the feeling of it. Ramsay loved the softness. Ramsay pulled away, gazing heavily at the valley between her prominent collarbones, reaching for his dagger hidden beneath the sheaf of papers on his table.

Phoebe regarded it with passive anticipation and fear as he brought it towards her, his eyes glinting as he slowed his movement, studying the petite blonde’s face, the overwhelming ache between his legs on fire now at the thought of such pristine, supple flesh just waiting to be marked, an unmarked canvas, and he, the artist. A masterpiece, waiting to be created.

 _Oh God, he’s going to kill me. This is how I die. Here it comes_ , she thought, biting her tongue hard enough that she drew blood.

“Ramsay, what are you doing?” she asked fearfully, biting the wall of her cheek.

“Don’t worry, this will only hurt a little,” he assured her with mock sincerity before bringing the dagger point to her chest, drawing a thin line and deep there. She inhaled sharply, her nails digging into his shoulder, biting back a sound, holding her breath until he withdrew the dagger and set it aside.

Crimson blood flowed freely out of the cut and she drew in a sharp breath as he licked at the freely flowing wound like a dog would drink water from a bowl. Ramsay slid a hand up her back between her shoulder blades to keep her in place. She wasn’t going anywhere he didn’t want her to.

He slipped a wandering hand beneath the skirt of her dress, trailing it along the inside of the softness of her thighs with thoughts of future bruises to impart. “So beautiful,” he murmured, his voice low and heavy with desire for her. His angel of fire, the angel of passion and warmth. Her very touch left a trail of sparks in her wake. Ramsay pulled back for a moment to study her face.

Phoebe bit down on her tongue hard enough that she tasted the metallic tang of blood on the appendage.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, fisting a hand into her hair. “Yes,” she answered truthfully, her voice pained.

“ _Good_. It needs to hurt. It's better this way, little dove. You'll see." He released her hair, his hands coming to grip her hips. Phoebe moved to bury her face in the crook of his neck to avoid looking at him, so Ramsay wouldn’t see the rage in her eyes, but he tangled a hand in her blonde hair, pulling her back and eliciting a startled cry of pain from her. “ _No,”_ he panted. “I want to see you,” he growled. He pulled her hair and she made a broken kind of noise, whimpering at his harsh tug.

“Milord, you’re _hurting_ me!” she cried out, but it fell, as usual, on deaf ears. God save me from this hell, she pleaded but no one came. “Get off of me! Let go, you-- _you horse's ass_!” she shouted, forgetting herself and reaching up a hand to claw at his throat.

“Seven fucking hells, stop fucking moving, you heartless little cunt,” he cursed violently before wrapping his hands around her throat. He captured her lips, kissing her roughly while increasing the pressure at her throat, already imagining what it would be like to strangle the cunt.

Ramsay’s reverie was broken when she abruptly pulled away from his demanding and hungry kiss, coughing, trying to get what little air she could muster to return to her lungs.

Phoebe dug her nails into his shoulders hard enough to draw blood and only when he slowed to a stop did she withdraw her nails from his shoulders, shooting a wrathful, defiant glare his way, her eyes flashing like the brilliant steel of a sword. Her eyes were her sword. She wrenched herself off of his lap and backed away, breathing heavily, still gasping and struggling to catch her breath.

A slow, sardonic grin spread across Ramsay’s features. “I think I will, indeed, my lovely. I will want it again.”

“Is there anything else my lord requires?” Phoebe asked, doing her best to quell the tremors in her voice. Her stomach churned and she fought back the urge to be sick. She thought for sure she was going to. _Fight it back. Don’t_. Ramsay flashed a charming grin her way.

“There is, as a matter of fact, my pet. I have a new job for you, my dear. No, no, not that,” he growled irritably as she began to straighten the things he’d trashed. Anything to avoid looking at him.

“What else would you have me do if not this?” she asked, frowning slightly, her graceful brows furrowed as she glared at him. Anything has to be better than what I just endured. God, please.

“I have a different job for you. One more suited to your skills, my love. One that should be relatively easy for you.”

She stared at him, waiting. “What happened?” she started to ask, but Ramsay held up a stern hand, stopping her.

“Don’t interrupt me, love,” he snarled. “I don’t trust the Imp not to fuck my bride at his every opportunity. You and little Reek are perfect for this job. It’s why I appointed you the Stark girl’s handmaiden, you see. I want you to follow her. Find out where she goes, who she spends her time with. I want reassurance she’s mine,” he spat, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

She let out a small gasp and put a hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

He ignored her, brushing away her comment airily. “I thought for certain, my new wife might have...Anyways, that’s not important. What is important to me, my lovely is _you_. You, my dear, are going to help me get vengeance for this inexcusable behavior. I _will_ marry Sansa Stark, and that fucking Imp is going to pay with his own life. There’s no one better suited for this than you, my love.”

 _Why me? Get somebody else! Anybody but me! Don’t make me do this, Ramsay, whatever you’re planning, please oh please, get someone else to do it for you. I’ll never be enough for you. I’m sorry. I can’t do this to her_.

Phoebe frowned at him; her face flushed. “B—but she…she is _nice_. Milord, _why_?” She knew as Ramsay looked at her, what he was thinking. Phoebe could see the look in his eyes.

He wanted to take her for himself. She had been the only woman ever to refuse his advances, despite multiple repeated attempts where he’d given it his all. She knew, however, the more she rejected him, the more insatiable he would become. It would only be a matter of time, but the longer she could stall him, the better her chances of survival. Phoebe made it challenging for him. She knew he liked a challenge.

He had never been one to shy away from one. Phoebe couldn’t bring herself to give up her very dignity and grace that made her special, just to please Ramsay.

She let out a startled cry as he twisted her arm behind her back and gripped it tight, threatening to break it if she struggled against him in any way or tried to make a run for it. She wasn’t going anywhere that he didn’t want her to. She could only watch in despair as Ramsay unsheathed a knife from his belt and held it to her throat and watched in horror as the blade pricked her skin and a single drop of blood fell to the floor. Ramsay leaned in close and she recoiled at his touch as he whispered into her ear, his voice smooth and seductive.

“If you _don’t_ do this for me, I’m going to destroy your pretty little face and make you one ugly whore.” He twisted her arm even harder and relished as she cried out, knowing full well she would comply with his demands. I can’t do this.

_There has to be a way out from here. There has to be. I can’t go on living like this…_

“You’ll never be beautiful again,” he snarled.

“M—Master, no! You can’t be serious!” she protested wildly. When she begged, it brought fire to his loins. He groaned as he shifted against her back, his growing hardness becoming more pronounced. Not now. There would be time for that later. “You can’t!” she begged, struggling against his hold.

“I thought that would get your attention lovely. And learn your words, you tramp,” he snarled as he released her, shoving her forward to the ground, where she knelt on her knees in submission and glowered at him, furious but afraid of him. As he liked it. Phoebe swallowed hard, fighting back her tears. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

“B—but Master, why do you need me for this can’t you—” she started to say, but her voice trailed off as a tremor went down her spine as Ramsay twirled the knife expertly in his hand, marveling at the gleaming silver, how it shined in the warm light from the glow of the fireplace’s flames. She knew he wouldn’t hesitate to use it on her.

“ _Won_ ’t, not can’t. I won’t because _you_ will. And if _you_ won’t, then _I_ will. Ruin your face, that is. You _don’t_ want to test me, my lovely. You of all people know what happens to women who disobey me or displease me in any way.” He glowered at her and smirked.

Her stomach felt like ice as it froze over as she glared up at him from where she knelt on the floor, frozen and unable to get up or will her legs to work. Recognizing she had no other choice, she angrily brushed back a stray wisp of blonde hair behind her ear. “What would you have me do?” she asked morosely.

Ramsay smiled. “Everything, my lovely. You’ll do this for me, my love,” he crooned, coming over and gently toying with her blonde strands. “You will if you value your own life.”

She winced, repressing the urge to slap his hand away. “I can’t do anything for you, Ramsay!” she protested. “I’m—”

Ramsay smirked, pleased at her groveling at his feet. He loved it when she obeyed him. She was _his_. “That’s where you’re wrong, my dear. You, my lovely, are the center of my entire plan. I can’t do this without you.”

He glowered at her as he collapsed into his chair and rubbed his temples. She could tell he was getting a headache. Phoebe didn’t like where he was heading with this. She had an idea she knew what her part in this was, but she couldn’t resist asking, anyways. She had to know for certain. “What do you need me for?” Phoebe asked, frowning.

“I finally found a use for your talents,” he sneered, enjoying watching her reactions change from shock to disgust. Get someone else to do your dirty work. Not me. Someone else. “It’s not enough for me to just kill this fucking dwarf, no. He’s not going quickly, this fucking Demon Monkey. I’m going to kill him _slowly_ ,” he emphasized through gritted teeth, pressing the point of his blade sharply into his palm so that blood poured from his wound. He ignored the pain and watched, fascinated as the crimson blood stained his pristine blade red with blood.

 _Oh, God. Not that. Anything but this. Get someone else. Not me.._. “I still don’t understand,” she managed shakily. “What’s my part in all of this?” she asked, afraid to look him in the eye.

He glared at her. She still didn’t comprehend. She would. “Come, my lovely little winter rose, you’re a smart woman. Use your head. You, my dear, are going to follow Lady Sansa and her fucking husband and watch their every movement, and report back to me of your findings, dear.” He smirked at her helpless expression, enjoying it. Phoebe bit her lip, fighting back her nausea.

“B—but M—Master I—I don’t think this… I don’t think you should—” she started to say, but Ramsay shot her a dark look that rendered her silent, waiting for him to elaborate further. She knew her place around him. Phoebe had learned the hard way. Ramsay let out a short bark-like laugh.

“You’ve been thinking? Oh, my love, we both know that’s not your strong suit, is it, Snow? No, it’s not. It’s mine. Without me, you’d be nothing. You’d still be out on the streets, only as an adult, you’d be forced to open your legs for the first man who came along and showed you even an ounce of kindness, I imagine.” He smirked and ignored the enraged expression on her face. “Consider yourself lucky, my lovely,” he said calmly. “You’re very fortunate.”

Phoebe felt her breath catch in her throat. Dare she asks the question that was burning on her tongue, searing, and singeing it?

“If I do this for you, will you let me go? Will I be free?” she asked, leaving her question hanging in the air for several excruciating, long minutes, and painfully twisted her fingers together, nervously weaving her knuckles in between her fingers. _Oh, God, why did I even ask? What the hell is WRONG with me?_

Ramsay smiled. “Of course not,” he answered, his voice a smooth, seductive purr. “ _You belong to me, girl. I own you_. Never forget that,” he hissed. “Without me, you’d be on the streets whoring to survive, or you’d be dead. You should be grateful to be gainfully employed and have a roof over your head. Many women aren’t as fortunate as you are. Consider yourself lucky. If you _don’t_ do as I ask, I’m going to destroy your pretty little face and make it so that no man will ever look at you again.” He laughed and waited for her to respond. Phoebe swallowed her anger when it was naught but a fire-seed and forgot to drink something cool, and so it grew deep within the pits of her stomach until her rage came out as hot as any dragon has ever flamed.

“You can’t!” she shouted, beside herself with anger. She knew she would never forget the look in his eyes as the last of her patience snapped. How they darkened and flashed angrily at her outburst. Phoebe had no time to react as Ramsay wrenched her to her feet, one hand wrapped around her wrist in a vice grip. He slapped her across her cheek, his hand a blur as he moved.

She was all too used to him hitting her. The sound was loud and lingered long after he’d struck her. She didn’t flinch or turn away from him. She felt her jaw muscles tense and go rigid and hard as she accepted her punishment, but her eyes were blazing—a great fire that scorched everything to ash that they came into contact with. She was angry with him. A rare emotion for her.

The sting and sharpness stung across her cheek, burning. For a moment, Phoebe forgot her fear and glared at Ramsay until he towered over her with his hand raised, ready to strike her a second time if she chose to have an outburst again. “I’m—I’m sorry,” she apologized feebly. But it was no use. The damage had been done already. _May the gods have mercy on me. I have no choice. I have to do this._

“How dare you talk back to me like that, you fucking bitch!” he roared. “You open your mouth to speak again, bitch, you will regret it!” Ramsay shouted; his eyes half-crazed with madness as he thought of the Imp fucking his bride.

“Why me?” she wailed. “Tell me!”

“There’s no one better suited for this than you, my love. You will do this for me, my dear. I thought that would get your attention, girl. You do this for me, and I don’t ruin your face. If you don’t do as I ask, you know what happens when you cross me. I’m going to destroy your face and leave you alone to fend for yourself. See how long you last without my help and protection. You’ll die without my care.”

Ramsay’s words, although cruel, were not incorrect. He had never spoken a harsher truth. Knowing she had no choice, she hung her head and nodded. It was all she could do. She would have to do this.

Phoebe blinked back salty briny tears and swallowed hard. _There has to be a fucking way out of this mess. There must be. I can’t do this_.

Ramsay turned away, the corners of his lips curving into a satisfied smile. He dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

“Excellent. I knew you’d see reason, my lovely. Do this for me, and you’ll never want for anything ever again. Jewels, gold, silver, gowns, whatever you want, and the world shall fall at your feet, sweet Phoebe Snow.”

She recognized that tone. Once Ramsay had made his mind, there was no changing it. Even she couldn’t persuade him otherwise. It was only Phoebe closed the door behind her that she allowed herself to cry, the briny tears stinging and blurring her vision. She angrily wiped them away, hating herself and her life. There had to be a way out. She couldn’t help Ramsay kill someone.

 _Someone help me_ , she begged, only to be met with silence. No one was going to help her out of this one. She was on her own, as usual.

No one was coming to save her.


	26. Tyrion

** Tyrion  **

_Vicious bastard cunt_. Those were the only three words Tyrion could think of to describe Lord Roose Bolton and his whelp of a son as Ramsay Bolton entered the mess hall, dark hair disheveled and a strange flushed pinkness in his cheeks, and an insufferable grin on his face, and he _especially_ didn’t like how he was looking at Sansa, as if she were nothing more than a prize to be won by him.

If Roose Bolton noticed the exchange, the Warden of the North said nothing. He merely shot Ramsay a dark stony glare and coughed once to clear his throat as Ramsay seemed fixated on watching Sansa, his icy gaze unabashed and unwavering. Tyrion inhaled a sharp breath of cold air that pained his lungs as he felt Sansa’s hand underneath the table drift over and settle upon his lap.

The sound of the Warden coughing to clear his throat as much as to command Tyrion’s attention away from that of his son and Sansa Stark. “As I’m sure you can tell by the weather outside, Winterfell is snowed in,” remarked Roose Bolton, his voice almost a lazy drawl as he smirked at Tyrion over the rim of his goblet, his gaze flitting between that of his son and Sansa.

Tyrion mutely nodded, shoving his bowl of lumpy porridge away, resisting the urge to crinkle his nose in disgust. The stuff was more lumps and water than edible food. Intricate patterns of ice floated weightlessly downward from the pure white sky above, each flake swirling and dancing, as an icy wind carried it toward a group of wandering dogs, scouring the streets for scraps. Glittering snowflakes fell soundlessly, taking their time before they reached their destined places of rest, enveloping everything in a calm, silent coldness that was comforting in its own special way. He suppressed a shudder, crossing his arms and shrinking into his thick linen shirt for warmth as much as he could.

Not a sound could be heard either close at hand or in the far-off distance. Even his own breath seemed to die as soon as it left his mouth. “What do you propose we do about it, then? The doors of Winterfell need to be cleared.”

Roose gave a curt nod, his expression was impassive. “Agreed. I think it best if Ramsay and his…servant help us down the side of the building. From what Ramsay tells me, the boy is…quite a _climber_ ,” he added, casting a dark look towards a shadowy figure hiding behind one of those mess halls columns.

Tyrion blinked and had to squint, leaning forward in his chair and he quickly realized it was Theon. He felt Sansa’s fingers turn into a claw and rake down the side of his leg. He winced as he could have sworn he felt her nails dig and puncture a hole in his pants leg, though he made no comment.

He saw her posture tense and become rigid and Theon gingerly stepped out from behind the pillar, eyes downcast, and mumbling something incoherent under his breath. It did not escape Tyrion’s notice that he was afraid to look Sansa in the eyes. “Y—yes, M—Master,” Reek mumbled, his voice breathy and barely above a whisper. He watched as he moved to stand behind Ramsay.

Ramsay snorted and took a long swig of his wine. “I caught Reek here trying to escape by scaling the walls of Winterfell, milady,” he spoke up, having noticed Sansa’s brows furrowed in confusion as she shot a dark look at Reek. “But don’t worry, milady. I punished him for it,” he added, shooting Sansa and Tyrion a charming little grin that sent a tremor of revulsion down his spine.

“Indeed.” Roose’s voice was droll, clipped, and hard. Tyrion knew well enough from spending time around his father that Roose and Tywin were of similar mindsets and similar temperaments and was able to recognize when someone’s temper was about to implode. He watched as Roose heaved a heavy sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “I think that it best if your little spider monkey helps everyone down the side of the building on the second floor, outside on the East Wing’s balcony terrace, boy.”

If Ramsay looked surprised by his father’s plan, the bastard gave no comment. He merely blinked a couple of times and then quickly nodded.

Tyrion scowled, pursing his lips into a thin line as dozens of images, possible scenarios for enacting vicious and sweet, blissful revenge on Ramsay Bolton for what he had done to his wife flitted through his mind, each more gruesome than the next.

He was surprised when Ramsay spoke up, his voice thoughtful. “We should lead a team of two men. Reek here can…escort us down.” He coughed to attempt to hide his poorly disguised laugh, a fact which only made Tyrion bristle in his chair, and he felt Sansa’s hand move from his leg and rested on his hand currently clutching his fork into a vicious ironclad grip. _Kill you_.

 _Kill you, kill you all, kill them all…_ It was all Tyrion could think of. Tyrion bit the wall of his cheek and met Sansa’s gaze, whose face remained impassive, though he as her husband was not fooled.

She worried about Winterfell and the people who helped keep her family’s castle running. “The people outside,” she whispered. “If we cannot clear the snow, then the soldiers and others who work outside are apt to freeze to their deaths,” she whispered, her cobalt blue eyes glistening with unshed moisture. “We cannot allow that to happen, milord. We have to help. I think this plan sounds like it might work.”

Tyrion nodded, though her words did nothing to quell the sudden unease that he felt forming in the pit of his stomach. “And what of the women, Warden? We cannot have them working out in this kind of inclement weather.” He furrowed his brows into a frown and reached for his wine.

“No, we cannot.” Roose agreed with Tyrion, something of a miracle, he thought. He glanced towards Sansa and then back a petite little young blonde who entered the mess hall and moved to stand behind Sansa’s chair. He scowled and glanced back towards Tyrion and Ramsay. “Perhaps the women can work indoors and begin to prepare spaces for the poor souls outside that cannot get in. Once we clear the doors, our soldiers and other hands will come in droves. And I don’t know what our situation is in the kitchens, I admit,” he confessed, glancing towards the little blonde, who gave a grim nod of her head, confirming what the Warden suspected to be true, that they were understaffed. “If that is the case, then perhaps Lady Stark and…what is your name, child?” he asked, lifting his chin to glance at the blonde, who looked mortified and upset.

“P—Phoebe, Your Grace,” she murmured, averting her gaze, and actively looking at the man’s boots. A light pink blush speckled along her pale cheeks.

Roose Bolton nodded and dismissed the girl’s name with a curt wave of his hand. “Perhaps you and Lady Stark can assist us and Maester Qyburn inside with lighting our halls as best as possible. The chandeliers have a pulley system. Qyburn and Maester Wolkan can show you where, where, after which, you will assist whoever is in the kitchens with preparing supper if they need help.”

Tyrion felt his blood boil. Sansa was a _Stark_ of Winterfell, and to _demand_ , not even to _ask_ , that his wife work in the _kitchens_ like a common kitchen wench that was well beneath her was uncalled for. He opened his mouth to retort and violently protest this idea but was not given a chance to as he let out a yelp of surprise and felt a sharp swelling pain on his arm.

Tyrion glanced down and quickly realized that Sansa had pinched his arm. She gave a shake of her head, silently communicating with him to remain silent on this matter. Sansa lifted her chin and jutted it out slightly defiantly in order to meet the Warden of the North’s piercing and listless gaze. “I would be honored to help.”

Tyrion watched as the Warden regarded Sansa in silence for a moment, and then broke into a seemingly genuine smile and rose from his chair. “Excellent. That’s our plan then. I’ll give everyone a few minutes to prepare themselves, but I think we should meet by the stairwell in fifteen minutes, men assembled and ready to clear out the snow from the doors. It’s going to be hard work.”

A new voice coughed once to clear their throat and both Tyrion and Sansa swiveled in their chairs to get a glimpse of whomever it was that spoken. Tyrion bit the wall of his cheek as Maester Qyburn stepped from the shadows, having seemingly been listening to the Warden’s plan regarding clearing the snow.

“A fine idea, Your Grace. Might I also advise that should you begin to perspire; it is best to shed your layers immediately. The last thing we want is anyone freezing to death. All of your lives are much too valuable. For it would be a _shame_ if anyone of you,” Here, Qyburn let his gaze sweep over the room, and Tyrion could have sworn Cersei’s maester’s gaze settled upon Ramsay, “froze to their deaths.” His voice was curt and hardened, though it softened as he tore his gaze away from Ramsay and settled upon Sansa and the little blonde. “If you feel yourself growing hot, find a way to come inside immediately and come to me,” Qyburn commanded, seeming to shrink into his thick set of black robes as much as he could for warmth as a cold gust blew through the hall. The men gave a nod, and everyone rose to their feet, ignoring the serving girls as they bustled throughout the mess hall, clearing away everyone’s plates.

 _That’s the last fucking thing I’m going to do is come to you, snake_ , Tyrion thought darkly, as he watched Qyburn’s backside as he moved in tandem with Lord Roose Bolton, the pair of men conversing amongst themselves in low tones, entirely too low for Tyrion to make out, but he supposed it didn’t matter. Tyrion moved to exit the banquet hall but was stopped by the touch of Sansa’s hand upon his shoulder. He emanated a tense exhale and paused as everyone else filed out of the room, noticing Ramsay shoot the pair of them a dark glowering, fuming stare, though he made no comment and left the room.

Tyrion felt the familiar rising of hot anger deep in the pit of his stomach.

 _Bastard, stay the fucking hell away from my wife. If he touches her again, I swear with the gods as my witness, I’m going to kill this cunt. No matter what happens to me. He touches her again, he’s a fucking dead man. I swear it by the old gods and the new_.

Hatred burned in his heart so deep that it was ingrained in the tissue. Red. Everything was turning red. His vision blurred as a flame curled in the pit of his stomach. His brain went on overdrive as it picked over every unpleasant memory he'd ever associated with Ramsay or Qyburn. The memories weighed down on him, but instead of breaking, even more, his heart turned ice cold and slunk into the shadows as his mind took complete control.

The flames in his stomach rose up to his chest and crawled through his veins, taking over the rest of his body. Waves of fury rolled off him as the blood rose to his cheeks. 

_Too long have you haunted my wife's footsteps; you snake. You touch her or go near her again, and you'll be sorry_. Here, this precise moment, this exact second, memories that would haunt him forever were formed. Tyrion had seen and done things that made him sick to think of, they would follow him for the rest of his life and would only bring him pain.

There would be no escape from these memories, it wasn't an illness that could be seen or cured, and the pain was to be his punishment for all he had done.

The term anger barely touched the tip of the surface. The need for revenge on Ramsay for cornering _his_ wife and trying to kiss her was like a rat gnawing at his soul, relentless, unceasing. It was like an abscess on the skin of his soul that could only be cured by the cruel steel point of revenge.

Festering like a septic wound, and the only effective remedy for this was cold, hard revenge. Savage. Spiteful. Unforgiving. He would bear a grudge until he died or took revenge, whichever came first. Settling old scores. Brutal. Callous. Satisfying. Empty, pointless. Mean-spirited. All these thoughts appealed to his twisted and dark sense of humor.

He was grateful when Qyburn spoke to him, startling him out of his anger that had been sure to erupt at any given moment.

“The men are ready when you are, Lord Tyrion,” Qyburn spoke up softly, offering a sly little smile towards Sansa Tyrion wasn’t sure what to make of.

"In a minute," he spoke up harshly, his voice gruffer than he meant it to sound, though his mood still had not improved, and having Ramsay in such close proximity wasn't helping matters in that regard, either. He turned to his wife and as he looked at her, his expression softened. Tyrion gently reached up a hand and brushed a stray wisp of red hair behind her ear. She smiled, her eyes twinkling sadly as she reached over with her hand and held his hand as it rested on her cheek. Sansa sank into his embrace, loving the closeness, feeling every crevasse of his body.

"You will be safe?" she whispered, her smile faltering suddenly.

"Always," he promised, pulling her close for a gentle kiss.

"Swear it," she whispered, her voice wavering slightly.

He was surprised at the pain in her eyes. "I swear it. I promise, love, I'm not going anywhere. I'll be fine, this storm, it's nothing. A minor inconvenience is all that this is," he joked. "It's you I worry for," he said solemnly, his tone turning serious again. "You aren't sleeping. I want you to take it easy today, love. No exhausting yourself. If you feel tired, rest. And if Bolton tries to give you any more trouble, come get me, love."

Sansa nodded, pulling him tight for another quick peck on the cheek before reluctantly relinquishing her hold on her husband. She glanced back at him one more time as she allowed her new handmaiden Phoebe to lead her away and begin the daunting task of lighting the hallways. There was so much to be accounted for, and never enough time.

 _There's never enough time, is there?_ Sansa thought darkly and could not help the feeling of unease that formed in the pit of her stomach as she followed Phoebe and Qyburn, the two of them chatting animatedly to themselves. She lagged behind on purpose and watched as Tyrion followed Roose and Ramsay and Theon, and her cheeks flushed pink as Theon dared to glance back over her shoulder, and she let out a hiss and bit the wall of her cheek in pain. Sansa could only stare as a light blush speckled along Theon’s cheeks and he promptly looked away and pretended to focus intently on something Lord Tyrion was saying something. She scoffed and resisted the urge to spit in his face. _Traitor, snake, he betrayed my family_. Sansa felt her fingers curl into fists.

“Come, milady. We must hurry,” urged Phoebe, gingerly tapping Sansa on the shoulder so as to not startle her. Sansa blinked, momentarily startled out of her feelings of immense distrust towards Theon and back towards Phoebe.

The little blonde shot her a kind smile and it was enough to ease the tension and she shot Tyrion one last glance over her shoulder before allowing herself to be led away by her new handmaiden, following Qyburn.

Tyrion watched his wife go, feeling a strange tinge of melancholia and a sudden sense of unease that caused his stomach to churn that he could not quite place as he watched her silhouette as it gradually faded and then vanished from view. He let out a sigh and glanced out the window at the raging blizzard.

It was an eerie sort of tranquility, so instead of being soothed; and it allowed for his senses to become heightened. He felt like the prey even though no predator could be detected. The houses of the townspeople of the smallfolk wrapped in the snow's cold embrace were covered in a massive white blanket.

From the mess hall’s window, the outside world raged a blizzard so strong that the familiar sight of Winterfell and its grounds had almost become eradicated, consumed in a thick blanket of snow and ice. The snowflakes fell in an angry vortex and the air was practically still but was so thick it obstructed Tyrion’s view and range of sight for miles. All he could do was watch and pray.

As he stared out into the grounds, the blizzard removed the illusions from his eyes. With his sight, he realized he was not alone. He was one of many in their vast world and the world before was full of interesting things to see, to touch, to feel, to keep his mind anchored in the present, and from dwelling in the dark recesses of his mind for too long. But as the white flakes whirled around him, he felt more alone than ever at the moment, as alone as he would be in the bleakness of the heavens and cold, so cold.

Tyrion reached out a hand to guide his way, but his hand was swallowed before he even walked a few inches. To save his eyes from the blinding white light, he narrowed them until they were almost forced shut, all the while the wind raged with no sign of ending, only reducing its ferocity long enough to gather the strength for another attack.

All Tyrion’s heart could do was beat warm blood around his veins in a faint hope that this raging storm would end soon, but he knew that the storm had only just begun. It had rolled in from the east earlier this morning, but the damage had only just started, and it was only about to get worse.

If only he could have known how right he was…


	27. Reek-Phoebe

** Reek **

Reek bit the wall of his cheek as he watched Sansa Stark and Phoebe Snow follow Maester Qyburn around the corner, his brow furrowed into a frown. What followed his momentary lapse of concentration was a sharp, shooting pain upside the back of his head, and he blinked, letting out a muffled whine as he realized Master had slapped him. Actively averting Ramsay’s gaze, he motioned with a wave of his arm for the small group of men, mostly himself, Roose and Master, Lord Tyrion, and Ser Bronn, and he coughed to clear his throat and spoke up in a muffled whimper that sounded more like a whine, like a noise one of Master’s hounds would make when presented with a morsel or snack and Master made the bitches wait to eat it.

“D—due to the—the storm, we can’t use the doors, so we’ll have to get outside a different way,” he called out. “S—since W-Winterfell is snowed in, we can’t use the doors, so I’ll…I’ll have to take you to the castle’s steps by way of the west wing’s balcony, a—and I’ll be climbing down and I’ll be t—taking you all down m-myself. One a time, milords,” he explained.

The men did not speak much as Master led the way up the stairwell and towards the balcony’s terrace of the east wing. Even poor Reek the Freak was stunned when they finally reached the balcony and dared to open the doors and expose the top floor to the elements of the brutal fucking cold outside. Reek swallowed nervously past the lump in his throat as he dared to glance down and see that the damage the storm had inflicted upon Winterfell was greater than he had previously anticipated. The castle’s front doors were going to be the most problematic, he could already tell with just one look at the snow, how the ice packed against the fucking doors.

The doors were covered up midway, and the only way the snow was going to clear was if the whole lot of them got their mattocks and chisels and shovels and fucking dug their way out.

Reek bit down hard on his tongue and could taste the metallic taste of iron as the blood welled on his tongue. He was honestly kind of surprised he had a tongue still, after all this time, given the number of times he’d bit down on the goddamned thing to stifle his cries of pain whenever Master decided to punish him. The blizzard, thank the gods, had finally calmed down enough to the point where it had, for now, stopped snowing, though Reek could tell just by looking at the clouds that the storm was going to return in an hour or two, and this time in full force and greater wind gusts than before, and the wind even now, still remained violent, strong.

He watched as the Demon Monkey sauntered over and poked his head through the balcony’s railings, grabbing a mattock to chip away at the ice if need be, and Reek knew he was going to fucking need to. “I shall go down first and get started,” the little lord spoke in a commanding, authoritative tone, though Reek could hear the crack and dip in the dwarf’s voice.

Master’s father nodded wearily, having followed them up the stairwell and out onto the balcony to assess the damage firsthand for himself. “Yes, and do take precaution in remembering Maester Qyburn’s advice. He’s a shifty wretched little cunt, but while he was under my stead here in Winterfell, he remained and still is one of the best healers that I know. If you start feeling warm, shed your layers immediately and get the hell back inside, no fucking excuses, you lot. Perspiring in fucking snow like this is the worst thing you can do in this weather, and I shan’t have any of your blood on my hands. Especially not yours, little lord. Not with your wife.”

The Warden of the North gave a curt nod towards the Imp that caused Master’s blood to boil, Reek the Freak noticed, though Reek knew better than to dare to comment on it at all.

Lord Tyrion nodded in response, looking to Reek for confirmation as he strode to Ramsay’s servant quickly. He coughed to clear his throat and mask his nervousness and could not help but to feel a slight apprehension at putting his life in Reek the Freak’s hands. A quick glance over to Master was more than enough. Reek swallowed and licked his lips to moisten them.

Tyrion regarded Reek with narrowed eyes, though he could have sworn he saw something with the Imp’s cobalt eyes soften as the little lion Lannister lord looked Reek’s form up and down once, twice, and then three times. He let out a haggard sigh and frowned.

“ _Do not_ tell Lady Stark of this,” he growled, and a light pink blush speckled along his cheeks as Ramsay signaled with a nod of his head and Reek grimaced as he bent the knee on the balcony floor and the little dwarf clambered onto his back, his stubby nails digging into Reek’s shoulders. Reek ignored Tyrion Lannister’s request and he too felt the heat creep onto his cheeks as the sniggers and jeers among the other men started at the strange visual of Reek the Freak carrying the Imp upon his back would forever become engrained in their memory for all time.

 _No friends for Reek the Freak_ , he thought angrily, scraping his tongue over the wall of his teeth as he realized just how fucking _mortified_ he was, frozen to the spot and standing at the edge of the balcony. He felt traumatized. He could not believe his life had come to his now.

What a fucking joke. Were the gods really such vicious cunts as to leave him to his fate?

Apparently so. The pair of them stood soaking in the cruel laughter, his head beginning to spin. Reek swallowed and stood there, frozen, as he watched in awe at Master Ramsay’s expression. He saw nothing short of disgust on Master’s face laced with amusement at Reek the Freak having to carry the Demon Monkey on his back like he were some kind of little pet.

Ramsay’s face reddened in anger, or perhaps it was from the cold, he couldn’t tell, as he jerked with a gloved hand, and Reek only knew that meant one thing: _Down_. It was time.

And yet, Reek’s legs refused to move, too shocked, too embarrassed that this was his job. He would have preferred it almost if Master would have hit him again, flayed him, cut off another fingertip, anything but this. This was the man who looked after him, clothed him, fed him, punished him when appropriate, cared for Reek the Freak, and yet, here he was, being asked to do something so incredibly humiliating like he was nothing more than good meat for Master’s hounds, and for the first time in his life, he understood what it felt like—to be a pet.

The warmth spiraling through his system had bloomed into a full-blown, sweltering heatwave bursting through Reek’s pores and triggering the sudden onset of waterfalls in his eyes.

Too bad the water had dried up. Reek started hyperventilating and gasping for air, and his heart finally started thumping again. However, it was too erratic for Reek to be calm about it.

Again, Ramsay motioned with a curt wave of his arm for Reek to get a fucking move on, as Reek stood there with the Imp riding piggyback on his back, the wounded bitch of a dog that he had now become, licking his wounds, too embarrassed to move, and it was only when the Imp spoke up, startling poor Reek out of his thoughts, did he blink and return his attention to reality.

“Well, then. I guess it’s up to you to get us down there, Theon. Please don’t drop me,” pleaded the Imp, and that was all he requested, a teasing sheen in his brilliant blue eyes that did not quite mask the terror within. Reek allowed himself the tiniest of smirks and hauled Lord Tyrion up even further on his shoulders, completely catching the little dwarf by surprise.

“Reek. N—not Theon, M—Master,” he whispered nervously, and as much to avoid Master’s uncomfortable stare as to put distance between himself and both Bolton men, and before the little Imp could respond, Reek swung his legs over the ledge of the balcony and plummeted ten feet below to their certain deaths, eliciting a terrified, high pitched shriek from the dwarf, who hadn’t anticipated the drop and Reek had quite forgotten to warn the dwarf it was coming.

Reek flinched as the Imp dug his fingernails into his shoulder blades, though he supposed he couldn’t fault the dwarf for the act. It wasn’t every day you almost fell to your gruesome death. He glanced at the dwarf’s stunned expression as the Imp’s eyes flung wide open out of sheer terror and they were falling. Perception of time distorted, everything slowed until it was nothing, only the two of them and the graying skies of winter above their heads as the sky seemed to swallow the pair of them whole. Everything was a blur that swirled out of existence.

Reek shot out an arm and managed to grab onto a ledge at the last minute and he glanced upwards, having to squint to see through the blinding white of the blizzard and he could swear he could hear Master and the other men laughing at Tyrion’s high-pitched scream he’d let out.

He clung to an icy ledge and stopped for a minute to plan his next move, clinging onto an icy ledge, shifting his feet expertly as he moved slowly and cautiously against one of the castle’s buttresses that had frozen over, coated in a thick sheet of ice and snow, adrenaline coursing through his veins and Reek had to blink back as visions of his last escape attempt flitted through his mind. Reek heard Tyrion let out a muffled little whimper that sounded more like a whine, and Reek, for reasons that were unfamiliar to him, felt the corners of his mouth twist upwards.

“M—Master?” Reek called out in a timid voice, flinching as the dwarf’s grip tightened on his shoulders, grabbing fistfuls of his cape.

“ _What_?” the Imp snapped, irritated, and badly shaken, and Reek could feel him trembling.

“It’s b—best not to look down, it h-helps,” Reek offered quietly, hoping the suggestion would soothe Lady Sansa’s husband's nerves, and he let out a yelp as the Imp’s temper imploded.

“ **SEVEN HELLS!** **DO YOU THINK YOU COULD HAVE FUCKING _WARNED_ ME _BEFORE_ YOU FLUNG US OVER THE EDGE TO OUR DEATHS**?” Lord Tyrion bellowed, beside himself with panic, and would have gone further down his tirade were it not for at that exact moment Reek chose to drop them another ten feet and save himself from listening to the shouts and instead the screeches of the little Imp filled poor Reek the Freak’s eardrums.

If it were not for the various towers and buttresses and icy ledges of Winterfell, Reek and Tyrion would have fallen to their deaths. After what felt like an eternity of more falling and feeling like their hearts were wrenching up into their throats from the fear of imminent death, Reek called out to Lord Tyrion, still clutching onto fistfuls of his cloak for support.

“M-Master, we m-made it,” Reek announced, his quiet, stammering murmurs barely audible over the howling winds. “I have to go a—and fetch M-Master, a-and gave Maester Qyburn an update. I’ll try to b—bring you help a-as soon as p—possible,” Reek promised.

Without so much as a second glance backward, Reek dropped Tyrion face-first into a fistful of snow and began to scale the walls of Winterfell again with a pair of climbing spikes.

Tyrion could only watch in awe as the Greyjoy boy scaled the walls, his dark cloak and tunic the only thing visible against the blinding white of the blizzard. The boy was incredibly strong and agile, and if he could have done this in the first place, Tyrion could not help but to wonder what had prevented his escape the first time. How he managed to fucking do it without so much as a scratch on him was far behind his ability to comprehend such an incredible feat.

Trying to set his frazzled mind at ease, the Imp began chipping away at the snow at the front door as best he could. It wasn’t too long before an ear-piercing scream rent the air from above. It was the kind of scream that made your blood run cold. Adrenaline surged through Tyrion’s veins, fight, or flight, stand or run, be a hero or a coward. As his fingers curled around the handle of his mattock, Tyrion’s decision was made for him. The scream came again, and it made the hair stand straight up on the back of his neck. It was the loudest, highest, most piercing scream he had ever heard, and for a second, he could not help but wonder if one of the women had volunteered to come down with Theon and help chip away at the snow against the doors.

Tyrion raised a hand to shield his eyes from the blinding white of the blizzard as Theon hung onto the ledge of the lower tower and with much trepidation released Ramsay, where Roose’s bastard son clumsily dropped face first in the thick blanket of snow with a loud shriek.

Tyrion bit the wall of his cheek and he could have sworn, he was sure, yes, he was sure, that he saw Reek offer him just the briefest of smiles.

“ **SEVEN FUCKING HELLS**!” Ramsay hollered as he sat up blearily, spitting out a mouthful of snow and his face reddened as he spotted Tyrion standing by the front doors of Winterfell, his hands curled over the handle of his mattock. “Wipe the fucking smirk off your goddamned face, you little wretch, or I should cut out your fucking tongue and shove it down your little throat until you choke on it! At least _I_ didn’t scream like a little _girl_ all the way down!” The Imp rolled his eyes and turned away, allowing a dark little chuckle to escape his lips. Sansa wasn’t going to believe this later. Going down this way hadn’t been his idea, after all.

It wasn’t long before the rest of the men joined the pair of them, and they attempted to make small talk, but the wind and cold temperatures were fucking brutal, so they chose to save their strength. At one point, Reek returned, having updated Qyburn and the women on the situation, and Tyrion could not help but notice the seething hatred in Theon’s eyes every time Ramsay passed by the younger boy. Reek bit the wall of his cheek as he felt a fit of hot swelling anger in the pit of his stomach as he shoveled snow faithfully, never to stray too far from Master’s side, like a faithful dog following Master’s shadow, his tail tucked between his legs.

When Master passed by him, his back turned to him, visions of Reek the Freak suffering flashed in the front of his mind. The day his cock had been cut off was the fucking worst of them all, and now because of Master, whenever he saw a pretty girl, he got a funny little itch when he ought to have a ten-inch hard-on, and he _hated_ Master for that. Red splotches of revenge danced in front of his sight.

He wasn’t even aware his hands were no longer taking directions from his mind as he felt his hands ball up a pile of snow. Reek’s lips were tinged with blue a while ago, and his fingers even gloved were almost immobile with the frigid cold, but his leather gloves let in the icy water without a fight and his cloak would be better suited to fall. But a sweet act of revenge would make this all worth it. It would make the pain of de-thawing his frozen fingers much sweeter.

Reek had been right in his initial assessment. Master’s reaction was worth it, and Reek quickly set his face to one of surprised confusion to throw suspicion off of himself.

“ **WHAT THE FUCK? WHAT IN THE SEVEN FUCKING HELLS? WHO THREW IT? I’LL HAVE ALL YOUR HEADS**!” Ramsay roared, his face reddening in anger.

“Just let it go, milord!” Bronn called out, his arms folded across his chest, looking as though he was very much fighting off his urge to laugh at the Bastard son of Roose Bolton.

“ **WHO THREW IT**?” Ramsay bellowed, his face reddening rapidly from both his shouting and the cold winds of winter. “ **ANSWER ME**!” he screamed, balling his hands into fists.

Reek felt his face drain of color as Tyrion met his eyes, his face paling, and beads of sweat formed on his brow and began to drop, one of them landing on the edge of his nose. He knows.

But to his relief, the little Imp raised a finger to his lips, signaling to poor Reek that he would keep the secret and be quiet. Reek felt his shoulders relax and he emanated a tense exhale.

“Give it up, Bolton,” Bronn called out, his tone cautious but commanding at the same time. “Just let it go. We need to continue working to clear the doors,” he shouted over the wind gusts.

“Shut the fuck up, sellsword, this does not concern you!” Ramsay roared. “I’m going to teach the cocksucker who threw the fucking ice ball at me a fucking lesson!” he snarled, bunching up a pile of ice into a hard packed ball. Reek swallowed nervously past the lump in his throat. If Master were to find out it was poor Reek who had thrown the snowball at Master’s back in a fit of unbridled rage, then Master would no doubt cut off his hands or even his tongue.

But the little dwarf did not give Master a chance to enact vengeance of his own as he picked up a snowball of his own and violently pelted it at the young lord before Ramsay could throw his own at the whole pack of men, who were _supposed_ to be cleaning out the doors.

“Throw it at me, then!” Tyrion bellowed. “I threw it at you, you fool!” he shouted, doing his best to ignore the stunning look of shock and something akin to admiration Reek was giving him. Reek blinked; quite sure he was hallucinating. The Imp was… _covering_ for Reek.

But why? He did not seem to want to let Reek take the fall for this. Reek bit the wall of his cheek and watched as the Demon Monkey glowered at Master, and the younger Bolton son almost seemed to deflate and wither under the Imp’s unusually cold and stern gaze and quieted.

Reek’s eyes widened and he looked towards Tyrion, who he could not help but notice had grown a bit red in the face and beads of sweat had begun to form on his forehead, and his hair was drenched, though not from the snowflakes. The dwarf reluctantly removed his thick tunic and cloak to alleviate the moisture, and Reek promptly looked away, wondering what Lady Sansa would say about this development if she were here. Though given she was the man’s wife, she could make whatever remark about her lord husband that she wanted and get away with it.

At the thought of Sansa and the dwarf together, laughing, smiling, sharing jokes, Reek felt the familiar twinge of jealousy and remorse at his past actions that had led him here to a lifetime of servitude under the Boltons’ command begin to flame deep within the pit of his stomach and work his way into his heart. He quickly brushed away his dark swirling thoughts.

Sansa would never forgive Reek, not in the way that he wanted her forgiveness and acceptance back into his life. He was past that point. It was too late for poor Reek the Freak.

As his mind wandered to thoughts of Lady Sansa, he hoped she and Phoebe were faring better in their duties inside than they were out here…

* * *

**Phoebe**

Phoebe tucked back a stray strand of blonde hair back behind her ear in irritation. She and Lady Sansa and Maester Qyburn had spent the last hour going around the castle with candles, lighting what candelabras they could, and working the chandeliers. The cathedral was still dim and drafty, but at least it provided light and the slightest bit of warmth. _What good it's doing now_.

Phoebe tried hard to stop the incessant chattering of her teeth, but she was freezing. The long close-fitting sleeves of her brown dress kept her warm, but it wasn't enough. "Are you all right, Phoebe?" called out Sansa suspiciously, eyeing her wearily. "You look a little put off. Do you need to take a break?" she asked, rolling up the sleeves of her gown and collapsing into a nearby chair for a rest. "Come, you should sit. We could use a break anyway; we've been at this for an hour. My arms and legs can't take much more of this. Sit down before you pass out and my husband has my head for overworking you too much," she commanded, her tone playful and her eyes sparkling.

Phoebe stared at the Stark girl in wonder and amazement. Phoebe could not help but smile shyly at Sansa, who returned the simple gesture with a genuine smile of her own.

Phoebe guessed as she looked at Sansa that she had quite the stories to tell of the men whose hearts she'd conquered.

"Oh, I was just thinking about beauty," she muttered, feeling her cheeks redden as she avoided her new friend’s piercing gaze, who raised an eyebrow in her direction but didn't comment. Phoebe found Sansa Stark attractive, even more so up close like this, and if truth be told, it was a little intimidating for her. "I—this may sound strange, but there are so many ways to be beautiful, but I always find myself looking in a mirror to find it," Phoebe said, feeling herself blush in embarrassment. She brushed her hands on the skirts of her brown dress and picked at a string that was coming loose on one of her sleeves.

Her floor-length dress was simple and neat, made of linen, with a wide scoop neck that brought attention to her prominent collarbones and her neck, with long, close-fitting long sleeves that kept her warm in the winter months. The skirts flowed and breathed with her movements, with a slight train in the back. "I'd always hoped I would have more to offer than beauty."

"You do. Where are you going with this?" Sansa asked gently.

"To be honest, I think you're a very attractive woman, Lady Sansa, and I can imagine you still turn a few heads in the street when you pass by people in the halls, and I'm sure you have stories to tell, but you're also a little…intimidating. I don't know why I'm talking so much and babbling like an idiot, but I feel like I compare myself to others so often I can't see what I have to offer, and as I thought, I started doing the same thing with you just now. Have you ever done that?" Phoebe asked desperately, feeling her face grow hot.

Sansa stared at her; her mouth slightly agape in shock. "I—I'm flattered that you think so highly of me," she began hesitantly. "But what you're doing to yourself is not healthy, Phoebe. It's rather sad, isn't it? We always want to be what we aren't just because everyone else thinks that a 'look' is better than another. We end up missing our good traits and features until we're old and shriveled. One day, even I'll be old, there's no way around that. Don't be so quick to feel like your musings and your thoughts aren't important. Trust me, Phoebe, life goes by too fast, and then one day, it's just…over. We move on from this world and into the next."

Phoebe smiled and laughed quietly, blowing a stray strand of blonde hair out of her eyes.

"Thank you," she muttered sheepishly.

"You're welcome."

"It's nice knowing I'm not alone," Phoebe admitted.

The two fell silent, and the silence caressed Phoebe's skin like that of a cool summer breeze, smoothing her soul, taking away her jagged edges. It had been one hell of a morning. She hadn't anticipated that Master would sneak up behind her and try to corner her, and then of course there was Reek, constantly skulking about in the shadows, following Sansa.

The silence of the empty pew made her blood as cold as the winter air that crept through an open crevice in one of the windows. Bereft of any leaves outside, the leaves hung limp until they fell of their own accord, there was no whispering or rustling. Nature herself was conspiring to keep Phoebe in the dark, not daring to whisper to her the reassurance she so desperately craved. The sound of hurried footsteps and the large oak doors of the prayer squeaking open brought her heart racing against its cage. Silence gnawed at her insides. Silence hung in the air like the suspended moment before a falling glass shatters on the ground.

The silence was like a gaping void, needing to be filled with sounds, words, anything. The silence was poisonous in its nothingness, cruelly underscoring how vapid their conversation had become. The silence was eerily unnatural, like dawn devoid of birdsong. Silence clung to them like a poisonous cloud that at any moment could choke the life from them. Silence seeped into their every pore, like a poison slowly paralyzing them from either speech or movement.

It was at that moment that a loud racket burst through the hall and the two of them could only look at each other in confusion before rushing to see what the commotion was. To their astonishment, the large doors of the entrance burst open. The two women exchanged an impressed smile and grinned. Sansa and Phoebe's smiles disappeared, however, as soon as they saw the dwarf’s face and pale complexion to know something was terribly wrong. He was shivering and shaking madly as Reek quickly chauffeured him to an empty pew. He was lucky to be alive.

"Oh my God," moaned Phoebe, rushing to support her husband as he collapsed into the pew. "Reek, what happened?"

Sansa followed close behind, craning her neck to see what the damage was. The fact that her husband was shirtless allowed Sansa to see each twitch to his body. Phoebe desperately shot a pleading look to Ser Bronn.

"You there, the blonde lass," Ser Bronn spoke up, his eyes falling on Phoebe, his accent thick and urgent. "Attend to the boy, go and fetch warm water and blankets from the kitchen wenches, bring as many as you can. His life and Master Bolton’s life depends on it."

Phoebe nodded curtly and almost tripped in her haste to retreat to the kitchens.

The situation did not look good at all. Lord Tyrion was well and truly screwed. She rushed down one of the stark, dimly lit hallways to the small kitchen where one of the cooks was amid preparing a small dinner.

She looked up as Phoebe burst into the kitchen, continuing to dice leeks and salted beef for a makeshift stew into small cubes. The noise had startled Hilde, who eyed Phoebe apprehensively as she heaved, trying to catch her breath. She failed miserably as she managed to rasp out, "Lord Tyrion Lannister—very sick, they're back! Get a bucket of hot water—a—and blankets—quickly! They…managed to clear the front doors!"

Hilde clasped a hand over her mouth and scrambled getting the requested items. It was a relief she hadn't started dinner yet as she was able to scoop hot water out of the cauldron as the two of them rushed back to the front hall, where a small crowd had gathered around the convulsing bell ringer. "Move, girl!" bellowed Hilde angrily.

Phoebe jumped back before daring to look at Lady Sansa’s husband's still madly shivering form, his lips an unnatural blue. "Oh, gods," she moaned, despairing.

The sound of Ramsay’s angered voice pulled her away from the Imp’s grim image. "I—I told the fucking fool stop, but he wouldn't l—listen," he shivered, his teeth chattering. "He—he took off his shirt to alleviate the m—moisture but was determined to help and clear the passage before it got worse. B—bloody fucking I--imbecile, it'll cost him his life." Phoebe and Sansa glared at the young soldier, however noting how difficult it was for Ramsay to speak let alone stand up. He kept teetering uncertainly before collapsing into a nearby chair as Bronn and Maester Qyburn lifted the dwarf and carried him up the stairwell towards his and Lady Sansa’s chambers.

Sansa’s lips were pursed into a thin, rigid line. "I'll come back and check on Ramsay," the young redhead promised urgently, rushing up the steps after them. "Phoebe, will you look after him until then?" she asked, pausing to glance back at her handmaiden.

Phoebe blinked, stunned. "I—yes of course, but I don't understand. You and Master," she said coldly, gesturing towards Ramsay’s semi-conscious form. "He lusts after you, and you're a married woman. You're still willing to help him even though he's shown you what kind of a person he is?" she asked incredulously.

Sansa seemed to hesitate, caught between wanting to answer and wanting to go help her husband. _He needs me_ , she thought. Phoebe could see it in the Stark girl’s blue eyes.

Finally, she found her voice. "There is no denying what Ramsay is. A bastard, I know that," she admitted, "but even he needs to be shown kindness. You should treat others as you'd wish them to treat you." Having said her piece, she fled up the stairwell, and Phoebe allowed her curiosity to get the better of her and against her orders, followed Sansa after Lord Tyrion. Phoebe helped where she could, following close behind Maester’s Qyburn and Wolkan as they helped support him and carried him to his and Sansa’s bedroom, gently laying him down on their cot, but between the frustrated sighs of the healers, she realized she was getting in the way.

"Come, Lady Stark," Maester Qyburn murmured quietly, laying a gentle hand on Sansa’s shoulder. "You don't need to be here for this, you should go back downstairs—"

"I'm not leaving him," Sansa snapped, a harsh bite to her voice.

Qyburn and Maester Wolkan placed hot towels all throughout his skin, gently rubbing them, hoping to get the blood flowing once again to his ice-cold flesh. The Imp continued to shake violently, but with the number of blankets wrapped around him, he seemed to regain some consciousness. "W—where's my wife?" he barely whispered.

Phoebe watched as Lady Sansa blinked back briny tears and swallowed hard.

"Shh," she whispered soothingly, reaching up a hand and gently caressed her hand through his hair. "I'm here, my love, I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. You're going to be just fine, I swear," she promised.

"Are you safe?” he asked, trying hard to control the incessant chattering of his teeth.

"I'm safe. You're safe, you're going to be just fine," she choked, angrily brushing away her tears. Phoebe could tell Sansa hated feeling vulnerable like this. "I'm going to take care of you," she cried. Phoebe couldn't tell if he understood or not in his delirium, but after a moment, his eyes drifted shut. Little by little, Qyburn and Maester Wolkan silently trickled out of the bedroom, leaving Phoebe and Sansa alone with the shivering little Imp, feeling severely out of place and utterly helpless. The dread crept over Phoebe like an icy chill, numbing her mind.

In her frozen state, her mind only offered her one thought.

_He's sick. What if he doesn't make it? What if he dies from this?_

There was no avoiding it. Unease blossomed from within her like a blooming flower of spring, spreading in her thoughts like a disease.

Phoebe decided to vacate the premises as soon as she heard Lady Sansa sniffle.

She hesitated, lingering in the doorway, a hand against the frame to steady herself. The young blonde knew she had no choice, as she knew she needed a moment alone before going to check on Ramsay, and Phoebe slowly tiptoed out of their bedroom, promising to come back in a half-hour and check up on his progress. The last thing the Imp needed after such a rough morning was to endure the chills alone.


	28. Sansa

** Sansa **

Sansa shivered as she reluctantly exited her bed chambers at Maester Qyburn’s insistence to vacate the premises while he tended to Tyrion’s needs, and she quickly realized as the maester shuffled about the room, fetching basins and hot rags to place over his arms and legs in an effort to get some blood flowing once again to his ice-cold flesh, as she heard his huffs of frustration, that she was getting in the way. She heaved a heavy sigh and tucked a lock of auburn hair behind her ear as she knelt by their bed and gingerly placed a chaste kiss on his forehead.

“I’ll be back,” she promised, whispering it into the shell of his ear and tiptoeing out of the bedroom, though not before shooting Cersei Lannister’s most trusted maester and perhaps the Queen Regent’s only friend a pleading look. “Please. Look after him. As much as it pains me to admit it, I am afraid I am only getting in your way, and you need to work and tend to him, and I should go see to Lord Ramsay,” she snapped, crinkling her nose in disgust, a gesture which earned her a soft chuckle from Maester Qyburn, who shook his head in amusement. “I’ll be back for supper, Maester,” she said.

Qyburn gave a curt nod of his head and clasped his fingers together. “The little lord will be just fine, Lady Sansa. It would take more than a little snowstorm to get rid of him. I will of course inform you of any recent or changing developments, Lady Stark.”

Sansa returned the nod and gingerly stepped out of their chambers, though not before casting a longing glance back over her shoulder at Tyrion’s unconscious form.

_Time never was on our side, was it? For all I know, Ramsay and I will be wed while you’re still recovering_ , Sansa thought bitterly, biting the wall of her cheek as she closed the door behind her as quietly as she could and descended down the stairwell towards the main entrance hall, where she had left Ramsay, alone, shivering in a chair.

Phoebe had mysteriously disappeared, though Sansa exhaled a relieved breath through her nose as the petite little blonde rounded the corner of the hallway that led towards the kitchen, Theon at her heels, a basin of hot water and towels in her arms.

She let out a terrified squeak and skidded to a halt, spilling some of the hot water onto the tiles, just shy of splashing Ramsay’s black leather boots, now ruined, shaking.

“L—Lady Sansa! I—I thought that you were upstairs?” she squeaked, her gray eyes darting nervously between that of Sansa’s quizzical staring at her new handmaiden and all the while actively trying to avert Ramsay’s gaze, who was glowering at Phoebe.

“I was, but I was merely getting in the maester’s way,” Sansa sighed, pinching her temples and raking her fingers through her hair before reaching out and removing the pile of supplies from Phoebe’s arms, who was looking flustered, her cheeks high and pink with color. “If you could, please venture upstairs and assist Maester Qyburn in tending to my lord husband. _I_ will take care of Bolton,” she growled, feeling her jaw lock up as she turned to regard Ramsay with no small amount of disdain in her eyes.

Phoebe blinked, looking quite certain as though she had misheard. “M—milady?” The little blonde reached up a shaking hand and tucked a lock of her blonde pixie cut back behind her ear and exchanged a nervous glance with Theon, who Sansa noticed, was also averting Ramsay’s gaze, his face an even deeper shade of red than Phoebe’s.

“Go.” Sansa inwardly flinched at the hardened edges of her voice, her tone clipped and hard, not in the mood to argue with her new handmaiden and she emanated a tense exhale as Phoebe, with great reluctance at the idea of leaving her mistress alone with Lord Roose Bolton’s bastard son, this Beast, this Skinflayer, tore her gaze away from Ramsay and Sansa and motioned towards Theon with a jerk of her head to follow her.

Sansa waited with bated breath until the pair’s footsteps faded as Phoebe and Theon climbed the stairs and disappeared around the corner, her cheeks burning as she could practically feel their questioning and worried stares burning a hole in the back of her skull, though she tried her best to ignore it.

She let out a huff of frustration as she approached Ramsay. "I highly doubt you're going to be fine, Ramsay. You've been swaying the entire time since you've come inside." Cobalt eyes met one another as Ramsay suddenly reached out towards Sansa's shoulder. He shivered, both from the cold and from the contact of his icy hand on her warm flesh as his hand accidentally grazed the area near her left collarbone. To him, she felt even more tantalizing knowing how incredibly warm she felt, the heat that her body radiated, in comparison to how waterlogged and frigid he felt.

Sansa eyed him wearily as she helped to give the young man some stability by wrapping an arm around his waist, and the other grasping his arm around her shoulder as she attempted to escort him back to an available spare room, little more than a spare cloister cell.

With barely a step taken, Ramsay stumbled clumsily, and would have fallen were it not for his vice grip upon Sansa’s arm, that was hurting, though she made no move to protest it, his eyes widening in realization as his voice came out in a hoarse whisper.

"Sansa…I can't feel my feet."

Sansa felt her eyes grow wide and round at his admission. _Oh no_ , she dismayed. _You've probably got the frost. Damn it!_

Relying on what little strength she had left, most of it going towards helping her husband to heal and regain his strength, she somehow found it within herself to use all of her power to guide Ramsay back to his spare cell, and she knew he wouldn’t be able to make the climb to the east wing towards his chambers, where he had taken up refuge in an empty cloister, claiming sanctuary from the bitter cold and the harsh winds. She let out a tiny groan as she settled him onto his cot and began to remove his tunic and ruined black leather jerkin, which was drenched with melted snow, the water pooling in a small puddle at their feet.

In any other circumstance, Ramsay would have happily allowed her to do as she pleased, but at the moment, in his current state and lack of any mental preparedness, he managed to grab her delicate wrist tightly.

"What d—do you think…you're doing, Lady Sansa?" he seethed.

Perspiration lay cool on her skin as beads of sweat began to form on her forehead. Sansa shivered once and fought back a tremor.

"I'm helping you, that's what I'm doing," she snapped irritably.

"But I—" Ramsay started to interrupt but lacked the strength.

"If you don't get rid of your clothes, it's only going to get worse! I've seen this before, growing up, the soldiers would get the black frost if they weren’t careful, a long time ago. You and I can work out our differences later, Ramsay, but right now I _really_ need you to cooperate," she growled through gritted teeth. Sansa's eyes searched his until he finally met her gaze, giving her a cut nod. "Thank you," she murmured quietly. Sansa without a word peeled off his tunic, not having time to marvel at his lithe muscles, but rather gaping at the hundreds of scars that littered his chest, scattered all throughout his body.

Ramsay instantly looked away, furrowing his brows in humiliation. _The absolute audacity of this woman_ , he thought. "If I recall, 'helping' doesn't typically involve staring, you—you insolent bit—girl!" he bellowed, his face growing red from shame. The bite in his voice released Sansa from her reverie as she grabbed a blanket and dried him as much as she could before wrapping him in a large woolen blanket. She wordlessly removed his leather boots, which were soggy and destroyed from the snow. Ramsay Bolton sighed. "They’re unsalvageable. Get rid of them.”

Sansa, however, was far more concerned over the swelling and unnatural reddish hue to Ramsay's feet. He looked down and grimaced, wincing at the numbness in his toes.

"You're a _fool_ to refuse my help, Ramsay Bolton," she mocked. "It's a wonder you managed to walk through the door in the first place," Sansa snapped. "But you're lucky," she quipped.

"And why is that?" he challenged, quirking his brow at her.

"Because _I'm_ going to help you. If we are to be married in a few days’ time, you need to be able to stand for the wedding, yes?" she shot back. Gingerly, she placed his feet in a bucket of hot water and tenderly began to massage them, her fingers nimble and swift as she attempted to get the blood flow moving to his feet again. _If I can't, well, I don't know what will happen_ , she thought fearfully as she glanced up at him.

Ramsay glowered at her, but he couldn't sense any treachery in the action, just genuine concern for him mixed with kindness. He had since warmed up considerably, and his shivering had mostly subsided. Watching her work and pour her heart and soul into helping him, he sighed. "Thank you…Sansa. Truly. I mean it."

Sansa, not expecting the admission of gratitude, looked up, startled, and met his eyes as they locked onto hers. Her breath hitched at the intensity and the almost softness in his gaze those blue eyes of his gave off. She smiled briefly before flitting her gaze back to his feet, choosing to concentrate on her work instead of on the handsome soldier she was helping. "Do you feel anything?"

His gaze faltered. _God, I could look at you all day_ , he thought. "No," he groaned. "But I—I can't have you tiring yourself a few days before our wedding, Lady Sansa. You have the Demon Monkey to look out for, after all. You should go to him."

Sansa snorted and chuckled quietly. "I guess so. I—I was just getting in Maester Qyburn’s way, I’m afraid. And…I thought you and I should talk. I—I found you these to wear. I apologize they aren't to your liking, but it's the best I can do for now," she apologized, presenting him with a neatly folded set of black robes. “They’re Qyburn’s, so they might be a bit big on you, but it’s better than freezing, wouldn’t you agree?”

Ramsay rolled his eyes as he slid the garment over his head, shrinking into its warmth as best he could. _Oh, that's better_. "Anything is better than my ruined clothes. The price I pay for being an idiot."

The Imp’s wife laughed out loud, her laughter a delightful, pleasant, tinkling laugh that roused him, causing Ramsay to hug the blanket closer to his body as he could feel his member swell and harden at her laughter.

_God don't let her see_ , he thought and suppressed a moan. She stood and lingered in the doorway, a hand on the doorframe to steady herself.

Sansa paused, looking back at Ramsay. There was an interesting gleam in her eyes, and, if Ramsay wasn't mistaken, the possible beginnings of a friendship, maybe even something more in her hauntingly beautiful blue eyes. "For once, you've truly surprised me," she admitted thoughtfully, her voice quiet and reassuring. "I'll be back later for supper, can't have you starving and dying on us, milord, for then where would I be. Will that be all right?" Sansa asked him inquisitively.

Her blue eyes pierced his heart as she looked at him inquisitively. "Are you sure your _husband_ won't mind?" Ramsay spat bitterly, unable to hide the note of unmistakable jealousy in his voice. "He doesn't seem to like me very much, as you saw earlier." The Bastard of Bolton stuck out his bottom lip in a pout.

She shook her head sadly. "No, I'm afraid my husband is still asleep. I—I should go check on him soon, but I promise to come back." Sansa hesitated. "You and I…there is no excusing what you tried to do to me back in King’s Landing, but…we might have gotten off on the wrong foot, but I don't believe you're a bad person, Ramsay," she said quietly. "Misguided, perhaps, if you listen to people like your father all your life. He’s a bad influence on you and going about trying to earn my respect and admiration in the wrong way, but I have hope for you."

Her laughter lingered in Ramsay's cloister long after she departed, once again leaving Ramsay speechless…and aroused.


	29. Phoebe-Ramsay

** Phoebe **

On the other side of the church, back in their tower, Phoebe prepared herself to enter their bedroom. She could hear low voices. She raised her knuckles and gingerly knocked, before berating herself that her husband was still probably unconscious.

A cheerful "Come in!" came from the other side, eliciting Phoebe to furrow her brows in suspicion. Phoebe drew back the curtain that led to their bedroom, only to find the new Healing Maester than wasn’t Master Wolkan, expertly rubbing the Imp’s arms and replacing the hot water for his towels. A tinge of color graced her lady’s husband’s face, but nothing too drastic from his shivering state.

The maester suddenly turned his attention to the blonde, seemingly noticing poor Phoebe standing in the doorway, at a loss for what to do. "Ah!" he said, his accent thick and pleasant. "You must be Lady Stark’s new handmaiden. I don't believe I've had the pleasure yet of meeting you," he grinned, revealing a brilliant smile. "Do mind this one, though,” he sighed. “The little lion lord _does_ have a way with women. A very strange way indeed. I wasn't aware he liked blondes. He's always struck me as the type to prefer brunettes, at least that's how it was in the past..."

Phoebe felt her face pale in shock. She looked baffled. _He must be talking about the bitch Shae_ , she thought, as mentions of Lady Sansa’s last handmaiden drifted to the forefront of her mind from earlier when Sansa had attempted to make small talk, and told her of her last handmaiden, how she had somehow betrayed her lord husband, and Phoebe had thought the Stark girl’s former handmaiden sounded like a huge bitch with no brains, bewildered as she stared at the maester, who was fighting back a smile, waiting for her to speak and say something to him. _May the gods help me_ , she begged.

"Wh— _what_? I—yes, I am Lady Stark’s handmaiden, but I—I…oh, forget it." A pink blush graced her delicate face embarrassedly.

Maester Qyburn chuckled. "Don't you worry, lass, I got the gist of your rambling. Now, were you sent here by Lady Stark? Perhaps you can be of use to me?" he asked quizzically, studying her features.

Phoebe nodded quickly. Anything she could do to help her lady’s husband, she would, especially if it meant staying in Sansa’s good graces. Her life depended on it. "Yes, of course," she whispered feverishly.

"Excellent. He's in good hands with a pair of women like you and the Stark girl," Qyburn admired, his gaze briefly wandering the length of her body appreciatively, eyeing her petite figure in her simple dress.

Phoebe could have sworn, she could have sworn that she felt Reek’s body behind her stiffen as he, for reasons unknown, hovered over Phoebe. She resisted the urge to crinkle her nose in disgust at the smell, but perhaps now that Master was, for the time being, at least, incapacitated, she could give Reek the Freak a bath and make him smell better. _It’s going to take more than just one to get rid of that stench…_

She blinked as she realized Maester Qyburn was still speaking to her. "I am almost finished, but it seems to me as though he's stabilized. If you could be so kind as to place a hot towel over his eyes and check on him in about an hour or so, I think he should soon recover. He's cold to the touch, but the more warmth we can provide, the better his chances." 

Phoebe stared at the maester as though the man had horns growing out of his head. "You want me...to sit with him? B-but I am not his wife."

Maester Qyburn shot the little blonde an almost pitying look. "He currently has no one else, dear. Anyways, if you could sit with him, that should help his recovery speed up, I should think. I'm heading to the kitchens. Steer clear of Ramsay Bolton, although he can barely walk, which may be easier than anticipated if that's the case." The strange healer let out a dark little chuckle and excused himself.

Her second warning to stay away from Ramsay, the first came from Reek earlier, when it was just the two of them in the kitchens. _He must really be suffering if he can hardly walk. Good. I hope he fucking dies_ , she mused to herself. Maester Qyburn soon left, leaving Phoebe and Reek alone with her lady’s husband once more.

She adjusted the pillows behind him. Looking at his face, she noticed his lips were no longer blue, so that was a minor improvement.

Startled, Phoebe let out a startled cry, a hand over her heart, as the dwarf’s eyes fluttered open. His teeth chattering incessantly, he blearily focused his vision a few feet from himself and struggled to sit up. Groaning, he touched a hand to his head. His head was pounding, throbbing to the touch. Why did his head hurt so fucking bad? Where was the wine when he needed some? He'd hoped Sansa would be there when he awoke and quickly realized it was her new handmaiden, Phoebe. He felt guilty as she looked at him expectantly.

"Lady Phoebe!" he exclaimed weakly, forcing a smile onto his lips. He was truly relieved to see her, anyone that wasn’t that shifty little shit, Qyburn, but everything ached. "When—when did you get here?" he managed to croak out, his voice raspy and weakened. "How long have you been sitting with me?"

Phoebe perked up and pulled up a chair, while Reek seemed content to linger in the doorway, twisting his hands together, not as sure what to do. "Not long ago, how are you feeling?"

"Weak, but better…Thank you, milady," he whispered. “Where’s my wife?” he asked, glancing around the room tiredly, a note of hope lingering in his voice, as though half expecting to see

She smiled and stood from her chair, draping another thick woolen blanket over his lap, hoping just adding another blanket would be enough to start getting his blood flowing to his ice cold flesh. "Don't thank me, milord, thank your wife, a—and Maester Qyburn, though if you ask me, he's a little strange." Phoebe leaned in next to him and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek. "Do you like blondes?" she whispered, a teasing sheen in her brilliant gray eyes. Meeting a confused stare, she paled slightly and recoiled. "F—forgive me, milord Tyrion, I meant no offense. I—I shouldn't have said anything! It—it's been such a long day, a—and Qyburn, he—he said that…that you have a way with women, milord." She silently cursed herself and turned away sharply.

She watched as Sansa Stark’s husband stared at her, dumbfounded. "Uh, w—well it certainly has, though I don't think anyone has ever asked me that before. In times, past, yes, I did like blondes, though it’s my brother Jaimie that favors blondes." He quirked his brow at his wife’s new handmaiden, managing a weary laugh. Tyrion couldn’t explain it, though he knew he liked this one. She was a far cry different from Shae. More timid, perhaps, but she seemed like she could handle her own.

It was those gray eyes of hers, cold and glistening, like a perfectly polished suit of armor.

The bags underneath his eyes and his skin was incredibly pale. He met her gaze and smiled, his expression softening and becoming tender. "You did not have to stay with me," he said quietly. "You should stay with Lady Sansa in case she needs any assistance. But I appreciate it, my dear. It was good of you to come. Very much. That was very kind of you, but you should see to Lady Stark’s needs, milady. I will be fine."

Phoebe stared; shocked that he would say such a thing to her.

"Good of me?" she asked incredulously. "Of course, I stay with you. Lady Stark, she—she bade me to sit with you, so I will stay and do as milady asks of me. Besides, many people now will be able to find refuge from this blizzard thanks to your hard work," she offered, ignoring the blush speckling across her husband's cheeks.

"You should give yourself a bit more credit, Lord Tyrion. Not that I'm telling you what to do or anything, and I—oh, by the gods, I completely forgot!" She smacked her forehead with the palm of her hand, berating herself. "How could I have forgotten, I—I should go fetch Qyburn, are—are you hungry?"

Lord Tyrion chuckled and smiled warmly. "A little. Thank you, milady."

"Don't mention it!" The blonde’s gaze darted around the room, skittish, to the left and right, before finally meeting his, though Phoebe quickly blushed and looked away, and she bit the wall of her cheek as she noticed Reek eying her, a strange look of discontentedness on his face.

Lord Tyrion was perplexed at his wife's handmaiden’s unusual nervous demeanor, but not enough to dwell on it. His entire body ached, and he was still feeling miserable, if he was telling the truth to himself. The little blonde’s mannerisms she was currently exhibiting were reminding him of himself whenever he'd been around Tywin on one of his bad days, which were more often than naught until his passing.

Left alone to his musings, he found his mind wandering to Theon, how he had willingly covered for the Greyjoy boy, shielding Theon from the fact that he’d done it. Yet one more debt the boy would owe him, never able to repay him for his kindness and selfless acts.

Lord Tyrion drifted into consciousness and then back out. The chambers around him was a blur, and random images seemed to float aimlessly around in the pool of his thoughts. His thoughts drifted towards Lord Roose’s words to him in the mess hall earlier this morning, and his jaw clenched in anger, as the Warden of the North announced his plans to marry Sansa Stark to his bastard son in a mere two days’ time, given that it was of the belief that his and Sansa’s marriage remained unconsummated, and no child in her belly, therefore it nullified their union.

And Tyrion was powerless to do a goddamned thing to stop it happening. He would deal with Ramsay harassing Sansa later. But for now, he was content to lay down his heavy head, drowsy with the urge to sleep, and retreated back into the wallowing darkness, diving for it to escape the ebb and flows of the fatigue and pains that ached throughout his entire body, especially in his arms and legs. He smiled sadly and wrapped the thick wool blanket tighter around himself and mulled over the situation with Sansa.

Tyrion didn't know what to do for his wife to help her sleep at night. She was hallucinating more often these days, talking to an unseen figure. She tried to be discreet about it, but lately, she was prone to an outburst or two of her own, shouting at someone. The shoreline had become a figment as if it evaporated in the heat.

Tyrion wondered if the world was but one ocean, the waves moving freely, gathering peace. Perhaps that's what happens when you are adrift like he was now. Tyrion didn't know how he could help his wife, and he suffered even more for his helplessness. You fear that the perfect circle of blue is all that exists. It felt as if the wind came to bring some sensation of touch, a soft hello from nature. And he has learned, in this—this desert of the company that it was better to let his mind be as empty as that horizon than it was to suffer the loss of hope and the tide of emotions it brought with it. He couldn't take it if anything happened to her.

Without her, he was incomplete, she was his, and he was hers for as long as they lived, and even into the next life, and what was happening to her, he wasn't sure he could protect her from herself and this was killing him.

Ramsay Bolton lay bundled, unmoving until the last vestiges of the sunset faded, left alone with his thoughts over Sansa, the temptress, the witch. Only a fucking witch would marry a wretched little monster like Lord Tyrion, and given that it was of Father’s belief that the marriage was unconsummated, their marriage was null and void, which left Ramsay to wed the Stark girl in a matter of two days, as soon as he was well enough to move again. He sighed heavily and hesitantly mulled over his actions and more importantly, his reactions. He grimaced as his breath exhaled into a soft vapor in the frigid cloister. Being alone with his thoughts was incredibly self-destructive as his guilt crept in slowly at a petty pace and he leaned his head back against the cold stone wall.

* * *

**Ramsay**

_Please. Tell her—tell her to stay_ , his inner voice is telling him. _I feel like the distance between Sansa and I pulls my soul out of my ribs, rendering me breathless, sinks me into the subconscious. It—it feels like I'm drowning in a freezing lake every time I lay eyes on her, but I—I don't care. I love you, Sansa, and I'm going to make sure you know it, you—you witch, temptress. I'm certain all of this is a—a hallucination of sorts. She didn't come into your cloister earlier and help you out of your clothes. It's all in your head. It must be. She must be an angel, or—or the devil. Her beauty isn't human; hers is a curse, driving men to their wildest, carnal urges. Her soft, creamy skin, how the lightness of her touch is enough to drive a man insane. Every touch of hers sends my mind reeling. Tell her that her eyes are my space. It's the world where I can visualize myself in._

_Her laughs are the secret behind my eternity of happiness, this foreign feeling I've not had in a long time since before the wars, and if she goes away, if she continues to stay married to that demon from the seven hells below, all of this, what I feel, will be hindered and I'll be nothing but a lifeless body. I'm the dead whose heart has been broken. I need that heart and that shoulder where I can put my head on and reassure myself that the world is my possession—that heart, the one I hear the beat, the voice of love in every second of every day. Will a day come where I'll know the end of this, the end of this—this vortex, this flooding, this deeply buried love, its blaze, its anguished cries, its torturous screams, its breakdown, its death, its tears, its time, its absence, its pain, the grip it has on my heart. Her grip on my heart. Because of my watchfulness, my impatience, my memories of its person, its time, its place, and its epoch…will there come a day when all of this will end?_

A ragged sigh escaped his lips and as he gazed into the water that he'd been soaking his feet in, his toes were no longer an angry red, but blistering and much darker than he recalled. It felt like hours had passed since the Stark woman attempted to go out of her way to help him and try at conversation despite his attempt back in King’s Landing to make her his, then. The fair-skinned She-Wolf of Winterfell was a mystery to him, and the treacherous ways he had viewed her were a bit moot, to put it lightly. Removing his feet from the basin of water, he dried them as best as he could, slipped on the set of spare maester’s robes that itched and scratched at his skin, and stared up at the dark ceiling of the cloistered cell.

Ramsay's feet were a mixture of numbness and nerve pain where his foot awakened from the dreadful cold, an intense burning sensation of pins and needles pricking at the nerves and veins in his feet. He recalled her glittering blue eyes like smoke and heat, like the brilliant shard of the steel of his own sword, and how they seemed to change with her mood—a shining brilliant sheen whenever she was happy, and darker, almost cerulean in color whenever she grew angry, and when she was sad and tears formed at the corners of her eyes, her irises turned a dull gray in color, like that of the last ashes on a dimming fire. Ramsay stifled a low growl and turned to face the wall roughly, his arms folded across his chest as he shivered, struggling to get warm. Knowing he was the cause of most of the poor girl's misfortune did not sit well with Ramsay.

But her husband was worse. _Far worse. Oh yes, he is_ , his voice snarled bitterly. _You know it, and there's still time to save her_. Having Sansa so close to him was a wonderful feeling, forbidden though she was, since when was he a good son? He'd never been able to follow orders well.

The new aspects of the young redheaded woman he never knew slowly emerged before him as he grew to learn more about her simply by watching her. And yet, he hated himself for being so weak and unable to control himself whenever he was in her presence.

Before Ramsay could continue wallowing in his self-pity, a soft rap on the door interrupted his thoughts. He felt guilty, not realizing how much time had passed until he saw the light of the moon shining through the great glass window, casting an ethereal glow on Sansa as she gingerly stepped in with a heavily laden tray.

"Ramsay?" the young woman asked timidly. "Are you hungry? The cooks made a little bit of stew and some bread, I—I thought you might be hungry."

His breath caught in his throat. The way she said his name so casually still baffled him, and he didn't have the energy or the heart to comment on that fact.

"Anything sounds appetizing after what transpired out there," he growled bitterly. "My fucking father is an old fool. We should have—we should have waited! Has anyone even entered? I highly doubt that," he snapped, hatred in his voice seething.

Sansa set the tray down next to Ramsay, taking care to light a few of the candles scattered throughout the room and took a seat next to him, apprehensive at being so close, but he could see it in her eyes.

This beauty was willing to give him a second chance at her trust. 

_There are no other women like this one_ , he thought sadly. "A few. Ser Bronn came looking for you, but I told him you were recovering and couldn't be disturbed. He gave me this, I think it's a death count by the looks of it," she said, reading the paper and shuddering as a tremor went down her spine. Sansa waited for him to fly into a rant of some sort.

Ramsay sighed and took the scroll from her hand; numbly aware he was crumpling it into a ball and tossed it into the corner. It took a moment for him to compose himself. "Thank you," he said at last, his voice reluctantly pained. "For sending him away. Perhaps I—I misjudged you. I hope that you will forgive me for my behavior from earlier," he apologized.

Sansa scrunched her nose and made a face, crossing her arms as she looked up at him. "You think?" she asked sarcastically, her brow furrowed as she glared at him, but they slowly relaxed as Ramsay grabbed her hands in his and held them gently.

"I…I have never judged you fairly, nor have I treated you well during your time here in Winterfell, and despite the things I have said to you and done to you, you still sit here and tend to me. Why is that, I wonder?" His eyes bore into Sansa's as her eyes widened in shock.

She folded her hands in her lap and looked down at them contemplatively, pausing for a moment to gather her thoughts.

"No, you haven't." His sudden confession unnerved her greatly.

"I—I apologize for my behavior towards you, milady. It was uncouth of me to behave in such a despicable manner towards you, and I—I can only beg your forgiveness and hope you can one day find it in your heart to someday call me a friend to you."

Sansa stared, stunned into silence. Slowly, she nodded. "I'd like that," she admitted after a long pause.

Ramsay grinned sheepishly and took the opportunity to poke at clumps of the stew with his fork. Clumps of it stuck to the utensil. "Gross," he muttered darkly. "What _is_ this shit?" he growled darkly. "I can't even— _what is this_?" he cried, his cobalt eyes darkening in anger. “Sludge?”

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, it’s sludge, I thought it would make a nice change of pace from soup. I haven't poisoned it if that's what you're after, Ramsay. Just eat the stew, you need to keep your strength up."

A deep laugh escaped Ramsay uncharacteristically, and Sansa jumped back slightly, startled at the unfamiliar outburst.

She'd never heard him laugh before, not once.

"What I'm trying to tell you, is that I think you—"

"Sansa!" bellowed Qyburn’s voice from outside the corridor, irate. "Have you checked Bolton for his injuries? Come, girl, you haven't all day, you know. Your husband passed out again, he'll need you alert."

The harsh bark of Maester Qyburn’s voice broke Sansa out of her reverie and she watched, deflated, as Ramsay's trademark scowl returned. He shot a dark glance up at the healing maester. Ramsay internally vowed to spite him for ruining their intimate moment as he quickly snatched his hands away. Ramsay audibly grumbled to himself. "No, Maester Qyburn," Sansa murmured. "Excuse me." She wordlessly lifted the blanket by his feet to see a few of his toes had blackened. "Oh, gods," she groaned, a tiny moan escaping her lips. "Oh, no, this is bad!"

"That's what I thought," snapped Maester Qyburn irritably.

"He has the black frost, Qyburn," hissed Sansa through clenched teeth, leaning in to whisper it into his ear. “What—what should we do, sir?”

"Well, it does the body no good to keep dead appendages, now does, it, young Ramsay Bolton?" Qyburn huffed. "We'll have to-"

"Cut them off," finished Sansa darkly. Her face paled and turned an interesting shade of green. She fought back her nausea.

"Obviously," Ramsay sneered. The maester rolled his eyes and the young redheaded woman’s face drained of color. She looked sick.

"Yes, well, I'll bring some shears," Maester Qyburn said. "Can you handle this, Sansa? Normally, I wouldn't ask you to do this, but I—"

Sansa looked startled. " _Me_?" she gasped, gaping at Qyburn.

"Yes, dear, who else would do it?" Qyburn snapped.

"But I—I've only ever stitched wounds; I don't think I can!"

"Phoebe and Theon and I are both busy tending to your husband. Lord Roose and Ser Bronn are helping aid the stragglers that managed to get in, the others are clearing out the dead bodies of the poor souls that froze to death outside trying to get inside our doors. Please do this for me," Maester Qyburn urged desperately. "You don't want the rot to set in. He can't feel them. Just don't cut too far down and stitch them up afterwards. That's it. Give him some milk of the poppy for the pain."

Sansa blushed angrily as she felt her stomach lurch. "Fine."

"That's more like it, child. That's the spirit. You have a fiery spirit, my dear, it'll take more than a few blackened appendages to turn your stomach, girl. Besides, this is a good distraction for you."

"How's my husband?" Sansa demanded suddenly.

"He's passed out again," Qyburn sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "He's going to be fine, though. The boy just needs to rest, and you need to make sure he does. Don't let him get up out of bed too soon, I know he'll protest."

"Not to me, he won't," Sansa growled darkly.

Qyburn nodded, his form retreating only to shortly return with a basket of cutting shears, needles, thread, and a small pot of boiled wine.

"Shouldn't we have more wine, so he won't be able to feel it? He ought to be drunk for this," Sansa said quietly.

Maester Qyburn glanced over at Ramsay and sneered. "He'll fare. We're running low and need to conserve what we can."

Sansa rolled her eyes and shot Cersei’s healing maester a dark look.

 _That's a lie. You and I both know your wine stores are well stocked to past capacity. That's not the real reason. You hate Ramsay for what's he done to me. That's why you told me no_. _God save you, Ramsay. This is going to hurt, no way around it. I'm so sorry_. _But I must._

Sansa grumbled as she ushered the nun away and closed the door, leaning against the door for support. She closed her eyes and steeled herself, willing her nausea to calm down. 

_Oh, God._ Once, she thought as she stared at Ramsay, she'd dreamed of slowly cutting away his fingers and limbs from all the trouble he'd caused her and her husband, but she could never bring herself to truly hate the man enough to enjoy the daydream.

He hadn't changed that much in the weeks she grew to know Ramsay, but she could see in his demeanor that this time, it was different.

Perhaps this time, he was truly trying to change and be a better person…or at least be more tolerable. Maybe, even likable.

Sitting on a small stool, she unsurely glanced up to meet Ramsay's blue eyes, a visible grimace plastered onto his gaunt face as she held a foot between her legs. As she picked up the pair of shears, she hesitated, afraid to take the first step in getting it done.

 _May the gods give me strength_ , she prayed, closing her eyes and swallowing hard past the lump in her throat.

"I'm sure you won't find it _that_ difficult, Sansa."

Sansa managed a lame smirk as she let out a deep breath, disgusted with herself in what she was about to do to save him.

Ramsay turned his head away sharply.

"Please, just make it quick so I can get on— **SEVEN FUCKING HELLS**!"

Sansa winced as he yelled at her. The tip was the only frostbitten area affected, and somehow, she'd managed to cut the whole appendage off.

When she glanced up, angry tears ran down his face as he glared at her, blood pouring down in a thick, garish red in the spot where his toe once had been.

In a shaking breath, he rasped, "For the love of the gods, just hurry the fuck up and do it! **WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR**?"

"If you'd hold still, it won't hurt as much!" she shouted. "And I'm sorry, but they—they _have_ to come off, there's no other way!" Sansa trembled beneath Ramsay as she disinfected the area with the boiling wine.

Part of her was astonished he hadn't tried to hit her. Instead of taking his anger out on her, he balled his hands into fists until his nails dug into his palms, piercing the skin until it bled, the tips of his fingers going white from the pressure of trying to remain composed despite the immense pain he was feeling. His dismembered toe fell to the floor and she turned away and gagged, holding a hand over her mouth.

"That's disgusting," she cried. She was in for a long night.


	30. Ramsay

**Ramsay**

Ramsay awoke after hours of trying to endure the throbbing pain in his feet. The pain had an unpleasant warmth to it, eating at his feet and spreading up to the pit of his stomach. There was nausea too, just enough to make him hold onto the table for support and breathe slowly as he struggles to stand up.

As a man with an insatiable lust for blood and inflicting pain upon others, Ramsay often prided himself on ignoring physical pain and enduring regardless, but right now that just wasn't possible for him in the moment. This pain right now, it owned him, dominated his every thought, controlled his every action. The pain wasn't sharp like a knife; it burned his insides better than boiling water.

Everything felt scalding, and move or not, he was in more pain now than he ever imagined possible. Ramsay wasn't sure which pain was worse: his existence or his lack of phalanges. Sansa had done an excellent job, though perhaps he should have sent her off to the find the communion wine by the time she got around to amputating the second toe. All in all, he'd lost three toes. Two on his left, one on the right

. He knew the fucking maester had been lying when she'd mentioned they were running low on their wine stores. He'd seen him take a swig from a flask just this morning when he came to check on him. Ramsay wouldn't be able to stand properly for a while, and his recuperation worried him.

What of his duties as her future husband and eventual Warden of the North, providing his fucking sadistic father was taken care of? His job couldn't wait, he was needed. _I must protect her from the—the Demon Monkey_ , he thought darkly.

Ramsay tried to rise and immediately regretted it as a shooting, burning pain traveled up from the soles of his feet and into his leg, causing him to yelp in pain. _Must save her from the Imp_. The sound of the key jingling in the lock and the door being nearly kicked open caused him to jump, startled, as a disheveled Sansa burst in, wildly looking around for the source of the noise.

"What happened?" she cried urgently, her gaze finally resting on Ramsay, and her shoulders relaxed a little, her blue eyes, currently narrowed and glaring at Ramsay with apprehension and just a little more than slight distrust.

Her brown dress was stained crimson with his blood from last night; she hadn't bothered changing in the night. Dark circles were prominent under her eyes, indicating her lack of sleep. She looked as bad as he felt on the inside, exhausted.

A part of him felt guilty for waking her, as he realized with dawning horror that she'd slept outside all night in a chair outside his cloister cell, ready to be woken at the first sight of trouble. However, the more sadistic side of him felt like teasing her a bit despite the immense pain he was currently experiencing, thanks to her.

"I—I tried to stand to assess if I even could, and—and I wasn't aware you cared so much about me to sleep so close to me all night."

Sansa crossed her arms and glared at him. "In your dreams. I slept outside all night to make sure you didn't need any help. My husband is still recovering from his sickness and I—I couldn't wake him, he needs his rest," she admitted sadly, turning away sharply. "So, I slept down here, near you."

Ramsay stared at her, studying her movements, her expressions.

"You aren't sleeping at night, are you? Don't lie; I can see it underneath your eyes and in your eyes. You're exhausted."

Sansa nodded, not bothering to deny it. "It's true. I—I suffer from night terrors," she confessed, not sure why she was telling this to the young soldier before her. "I wake up in the middle of the night screaming. It's been affecting my husband's sleep too, and I—I can't inflict that on him anymore. Not while he's recovering. I can't."

"It will get better," he reassured her, surprised at the change in his voice. His voice lowered and grew quiet, thoughtful even. He shifted the blanket so the girl wouldn’t see his swelling hardness. Ramsay bit the wall of his cheek and nearly growled with the effort to restrain himself.

"I can only hope it will," Sansa despaired, not looking at him. "I don't know how much more of this I can take. It isn't good for me, nor for him.”

"I—I dreamed of you last night, milady," Ramsay admitted, surprised to hear himself confess it. "It was—" he started to say, but Sansa help up a hand, stopping from speaking further.

"Don't say another word about it," she commanded harshly, her cheeks reddening as a light blush spread across her face. "Keep your—your delusions to yourself, Ramsay. It will never happen. You don't want to fight me, Ramsay, you've done that once before and lost, remember?" she teased, smirking, and quirking her brow at her. “I don’t think you want to face Brienne in a rematch, do you? You know she’ll win…”

His breath came out in a quiver as he gingerly walked on his heels to the cluttered desk. Ramsay collapsed with a grimace on a book-stacked chair as he began rewrapping his feet. "Here," she said suddenly, kneeling by Ramsay's chair, and with careful, delicate fingers began to expertly bind his bandages. "Let me do this, save your strength," she huffed.

"Our…fight, if you can even call it that was hardly a fight at all," he explained irritably as he studied Sansa's reaction carefully. "Especially since that bitch interrupted our meeting, that vicious cunt—" he growled darkly, remembering the interruption.

"You could stand to mind your tongue around me, Lord Bolton," Sansa snapped, no warmth in her voice.

Ramsay scoffed and absentmindedly picked at his nails. "There are many things you haven't heard me speak yet, milady, and some things I'd still like to hear from _your_ lips," he teased.

Sansa's blush deepened at his blatant flirting. She cocked her head to the side and leaned up closer. "Oh? Like what?" she challenged. This man was much too prudent to keep this up.

Or so she thought. A deep, sinister chuckle escaped his lips and he grinned infectiously. _Damn you, Ramsay_ , she thought and groaned.

"What would be the fun in telling you?" His voice was like a deep purr and she couldn't help but lean in closer, entranced by the change in his demeanor. Sansa seemed to snap out of whatever she was thinking of in the moment and stormed out of the room, flustered and growing angry.

"Ramsay, you're insane!" she shouted. "Finish up, so I can help you to the kitchens, you nasty cripple!" she bellowed.

Ramsay could hear Sansa's insults and rants from the next room over and for the first time in a long time, he felt more optimistic about their situation. Ramsay would sure remedy her insults now that he knew she liked his voice in a certain octave.

"Seductive voice for a seductive woman," he mused to himself.

Lord Roose Bolton and Maester Qyburn had been in mid-conversation about their current housing situation when they all stopped, startled, as they strained to listen to the intimidating voice of Ramsay's voice mingled with Sansa's normally kind, quiet voice like a soft summer wind was now much angrier. The two were bickering.

"If you lean into me any harder, we're both going to fall!"

"You didn't seem to mind being so close to me when you wanted to know about my…delusions!" Ramsay protested.

"You insufferable idiot! I did mind, I do! **I ALWAYS MIND**!"

"Oh, I beg to differ! **OW, SHIT, STOP, STOP, WAIT**!"

"Are you all right?" Sansa was saying, suddenly quiet and tense.

The pair entered through the small doorway met with the inquisitive gazes of Roose and Qyburn. Sansa met Qyburn’s gaze and her face paled in shock. Qyburn's gaze dropped to Ramsay's blood-soaked bandages on his feet, and the garish red stains on Sansa's dress spattered throughout as he recognized what had happened to their young lord. The Imp's wife was casually supporting Ramsay against her for balance, one of his arms draped over her shoulder.

It was a very peculiar scene, given the two hated each other, that Sansa would so selflessly offer her help and time for Ramsay, but Qyburn knew that was simply her character, who she was. Qyburn knew that as he looked at Sansa and their eyes locked, that she was an angel, sent to them from the heavens to walk the earth, helping those in need, such as Ramsay, regardless of whether the man deserved her help or not.

To Qyburn, an angel was one who loved, one who did their best to help others in need, someone who worked to do what was right even when there was nothing in it for themselves. But angels still looked after themselves; they could feel such exquisite, emotional pain and loneliness, despite it being such torture to them. They could still love in any way they wished or needed; everyone was entitled to those rights.

Qyburn, as he looked at Sansa, knew what love was, and what the light was now trying to show him, what he already carried an instinct for. The Imp’s wife was a godsend to them all.

Ramsay's face grew ashen as what little color was left in his face drained as he realized the situation before them did not look good.

Sansa felt him stiffen and gently nudged him to take a seat. The soldier reddened and winced as he gingerly lowered himself down, tightly gripping the table until his knuckles turned white with the effort.

She immediately noticed a change in his demeanor as he turned to face the eyes of the Warden and Maester Qyburn. One hard look and the two immediately looked away.

Satisfied, Ramsay took a spoonful of porridge as Sansa noticed just how much power he held. In the softest voice he ever produced, his tone was terse as she heard him whisper into his ear.

"You should have changed your dress, Lady Sansa." The mocking lacing undertones of his almost childlike voice was insufferable, and she silently seethed, praying to the gods above to grant her strength.

Ramsay had a point, but she didn't want him to take it. "And _you_ should have stayed in your cell!" Sansa retorted. Sansa ate tersely, often glancing up to meet a pair of curious eyes as passerby stared in awe and shock at the idea of seeing the Imp's wife seated next to the young son of the Warden of the North. She found herself trying to meet Ramsay's gaze for acknowledgment that he too, found this highly uncomfortable. He barely even glanced over at her, choosing instead to focus on eating, and that was being generous.

Sansa wasn't sure why she was so keen on avoiding her while they ate. The man had practically been up her skirt since he encountered her in King’s Landing, always stalking her around every corner, watching her. But now that he was under the direct watch of his lord father and Maester Qyburn, little more than the Queen Regent’s spy, he looked as though he'd rather be anywhere else but near her.

Sansa sighed, stirring her lumpy porridge absentmindedly, crinkling her nose in disgust. She was saved the trouble of taking another bite as her stomach lurched and a wave of nausea overcame her entire body, adding to her already sleep-deprived misery. "Excuse me," she muttered darkly, a hand over her mouth, standing up so fast she overturned her chair in her haste to flee.

She didn't stop until she reached the kitchens, barely making it to a basin. Her stomach contracted so violently, and her stomach emptied until there was nothing left for her to bring up.

 _Well, that was a waste of a meal_ , she thought darkly, her knuckles white and shaking. Her stomach felt sore from the stomach acid that was layering it and her mouth tasted of bile. Sansa's entire body ached, and she felt weak. She sank to her knees and slumped against the cold stone wall, enjoying the coolness of the harsh stones against her warm skin.

 _No one's coming_ , she thought, slightly dismayed. The thick scent of bile filled her nostrils and her stomach dry-heaved again as she surveyed her reflection in a nearby mirror. Her face was ill, drawn, and taut. _By the Light of the Seven_ , she prayed, closing her eyes, and steeling her nerves. _Give me strength enough for my husband and myself. Allow me to sleep, and soon. I don't know if I can take much more of this..._

Not wanting to linger here or head back to the kitchens towards the congregation of curious onlookers, no doubt gossiping about her and the injured bastard son of Roose Bolton, what they had gotten up to in the late hours of the night, she could almost hear their condescending tones as she wandered the halls aimlessly until she came across the windowsill with the ledge large enough to sit on. Desperate for the sunlight to caress her skin, she climbed up and stop on top of the ledge, basking in what little warmth the sun's rays dared to let stream in through the thick stained glass. _Please…_

The sound of someone gently clearing their throat interrupted her prayer, causing her eyes to dart open. She startled, struggling to see through the haze that was her vision, slightly blurry and distorted from her growing lack of sleep. _Great_ , she thought darkly, upon seeing who it was. _Just what I need right now_. Still, she forced herself to be pleasant.

"Milord Bolton, what can I do for you," she snapped.

"Milady," he answered courteously, no previous hints of his hostile nature evident. All she could detect in his tone now was genuine worry and concern. "What are you doing up there? I came to check on you, and—" he started to say, but to his annoyance, the fair-skinned young woman held up a hand, stopping it.

"What can I do for you, Ramsay?" she asked, letting out a weary sigh and rubbing her temples, pinching the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger, as though she were getting a splitting headache. "Do you need help walking back to the cloisters?" she asked, not caring if it embarrassed him.

Ramsay blushed, and for just a moment, the briefest flashes of anger crossed his cobalt blue orbs. But he shook aside his bitterness, allowing himself to sit as he rested his back against one of the stone pillars near the window ledge. "What are you doing up there?" he asked, deflecting her question.

Sighing, she turned her head back towards the window, pulling her knees close and wrapping her arms around them, resting her head on her knees.

"Well, we're trapped in here for the time being. I can't go outside, so this is the next best alternative, I guess."

Quietly, she descended from her perch, not wanting to leave the warmth of the windowsill, but she recognized her time alone was up. Perhaps later, if the weather permitted, she could go walking.

Gracefully, Sansa hopped down in front of Lord Bolton's son, bearing her soft, inquisitive gray pools into his piercing cerulean eyes. Ramsay noticed her face was looking thinner and her eyes were much smaller than he previously remembered. The rims of her eyes were red from crying. Gently, he took her chin in his hands and furrowed his brows. "You look troubled."

Sansa frowned. "Let go of me, don't _even_ touch me," she snapped, wrenching away from his touch. She crossed her arms and glowered at Ramsay, repressing the urge to roll her eyes at the dark-haired man's stupefied expression. "I thought you got a kick out of seeing me miserable, Ramsay, or was I just imagining that?"

"Would you just answer me?" the man growled, leering at her, and regretting it as the young woman who had admittedly saved his life backed away from him, clutching herself for warmth despite the warmth of her brown dress. She shivered, wrapping the cape she wore over her dress around herself tighter for as much warmth as she could, but it still was not enough.

Sansa bit her lip, hesitating, seemingly at war with herself, trying to decide if she could trust this man. At last, something within her gave way and she relented.

"I don't know if my husband is going to make it," she admitted, brushing away her tears that had gathered at the corners of her eyes with a flick of her finger. "I…" Sansa's voice grew hoarse as her voice cracked and her thought process faltered, unable to finish the thought that she did not want to speak out loud, for fear that if she did, then it might come true.

She buried her face in her hands, absolutely humiliated. She cried, mentally punching herself for showing so much weakness to a Bolton man, of all people. The very man who had helped in ruining her life.

Sansa rubbed her arm over her face, trying in vain to dry her tears. Wordlessly, without waiting to ask her for permission, Ramsay held the young woman to his chest, almost as if by instinct, he felt her weep, her body pressed against his. He smirked, briefly wondering what her husband would think if he could see this with his own eyes for himself. He'd hate him, surely.

"Your…husband will be just fine," he hissed through gritted teeth, clenching his eyes shut, stroking her hair, and just relishing the moment. _He won't. He'll die, and then you'll be mine!_ Ramsay reached up and tucked her hair back behind her ear and shot her what he hoped was a mostly affectionate smile.

Sansa took a faltering step backward, uneasy at the sudden close contact. Changing the subject, she inspected the skin underneath her nails with a feigned interest in the non-existent dirt that didn't reside there. "How are you feeling this morning, Ramsay? Do you need any help at all?" she asked in what she hoped was a casual tone. She sniffed once and brushed away the last of her tears with an irritated flick of her finger. "I can help…"

Ramsay scowled. "No, thank you," he responded stiffly, feeling his body stiffen and harden at the suggestion. "Have you…" Ramsay hesitated but asked the question that was burning on the tip of his tongue anyways. "Have you been crying up here all morning, milady? Enough is enough, wouldn't you say?" he asked, doing his best to ensure his tone remained neutral.

Sansa looked up from her nonchalant nail preening with furrowed eyes and glowered at him. "No, not the whole morning but enough. Please do not mock me," she snapped, shoving him away slightly as he advanced upon her. "Think of me whatever you will, but I value my marriage with Lord Tyrion. I'd much rather have him than _you_."

Ramsay huffed, feeling his irritation with the little lion Lannister Imp consume yet, yet again, only this time in waves.

Burning rage hissed through his body like deathly poison, screeching a demanded release in the form of unwanted violence. It was like a volcano erupting, whenever thoughts of the young red woman who currently held his heart and that demon from the depths of hell filled his mind, his fury sweeping off him like ferocious waves. His wrath consumed him, engulfing his moralities and destroying his boundaries of loyalties.

"He does not belong in our society!" Ramsay shouted, beside himself with rage. He wasn't sure where this outburst was coming from, but it was too late to stop himself. "I did it because he needed to be taught a lesson! The people of Westeros will never accept him for who he is, because of what he is. And now, he's done the same thing to you, Sansa. He's branded you, made you an outcast, and it makes me sick, what he's doing to you! You're—you're starting to think like him, to talk like him, and I cannot stomach it anymore!"

Ramsay breathed through his nose, silently pleading to the gods to control himself whenever he was around her. He needed her trust and acceptance. _Now is not the time for you to see red_ , his voice advised. _Keep it together_.

Sansa glared at Ramsay, folding her arms across her chest and stomped her foot in agitation, a release of frustration. She stood there, wide-eyed, taking a few faltering steps back, waiting for him to speak and further erupt into a ran. But when he didn't, she let out a shaky sigh. "Ramsay, you cannot punish my husband for wanting something that everyone else takes for granted daily. He only wants a normal life. A partner, a family of our own soon in a few more months, a home," she added, with just the faintest note of pride in her voice.

It did not escape Ramsay's attention that her right hand had drifted towards her left, where she tenderly fidgeted with the plain gold wedding band she wore proudly. A habit of hers, he noticed. He fought back the bile creeping his way up into his throat and swallowed hard, hoping the young woman did not sense his nervousness.

Sansa took that as her sign to continue when he did not respond. "Why should Tyrion not be allowed to have what we all want? Why is he any different?" she challenged with her hands on her hips. "Tell me. Why, Ramsay?"

"I…" His voice cracked and Ramsay found himself unable to formulate a proper response. Perhaps he could have if he weren't so enraptured by her.

When Ramsay did not respond to her question, Sansa sneered and began to walk away, back towards the east wing stairwell.

"I knew it," she sighed, though she did not sound angry with the soldier, but rather, defeated. "Find your own way back, Bolton. I'm not your—your personal nurse!" Her piece said, she turned her back on him and walked away, leaving him yet again slightly aroused at the sudden feistiness in her changed behavior when she was around him. Ramsay hobbled back to his cell with great difficulty, slamming the door in sheer frustration. 

_Without her, I'm nothing_. Ramsay was fuming, alone in his anger that threatened to spill over like an erupting volcano. He had let so much slip. This was not like him at all.

He liked this one, this girl who had bewitched him so, and she didn't even have to try. Ramsay wasn't going to give up on Sansa Stark that easily. He had never had someone watch him completely lose all sight of himself and break down like that. Ramsay always prided himself on hiding his emotions well. Ramsay growled in frustration. He glanced around, his eyes a bit red as he saw some of the graffiti outlined by others, soldiers.

"Goddamned fucking blizzard," he grumbled darkly under his breath. He wished that the gods would just end his torment already and be done with it.


	31. Prelude

**Prelude**

The water that had run so freely in the failing light of dusk was now trapped in icy form, beautiful under the glare of the moonlight, but as solid as the frozen ground under Sansa's boot. Unbeknownst to the young woman, Ramsay watched the night weather and scrutinized the water with a careful, suspicious eye.

He had sworn an oath to protect the castle and her people, for the entire North, and he was not about to leave his love out here unattended and alone. No one feature made Ramsay quite so handsome, but the man’s eyes came close enough. Parisians often spoke of the color of eyes, as if that were of any importance.

Ramsay Bolton was fitter looking than most of the villagers in the story ever expected. His face told of a lean body beneath his wintry garb, and his expression was often serious but not unkind, especially not to Sansa Stark, who still, for reasons that were beyond him, still despised him, despite the fact she had agreed to marry him on the morrow if that meant that her husband’s life would be spared **.** Ramsay shivered as a gust of cold wind blew through the air and tousled his dark locks.

He wrenched his glove off of his left hand and reached out to touch, recoiling as soon as he made contact. He let out a hiss of pain and jerked his hand back. It was not ice. No, this was unnaturally cold. The kind of coldness that left him unable to warm up without retreating into the safety of Winterfell.

While the snow was pleasant to look upon at first, it would simply be whiter falling from the dark gray skies. After what felt like hours of waiting, the fair Sansa arrived, clad in a beautiful dark green dress and a dark blue cape. She had not yet noticed that he had followed her out here.

Ramsay liked to see the woman's cobalt eyes light up at the sight of the snow falling. The bastard of Roose Bolton sighed, thinking that it was not fair that the young woman's hard life was not her fault, but rather, the fault of the Lannister family. Almost as if she could sense him looking, Sansa glanced up from admiring a beautiful red cardinal and froze. The young woman's once fiery eyes seemed doused in ice water, unnervingly making the blue paler.

It was like she had drifted into a shell, so touch to reach. The soldier resented the fact that the woman had grown up into such a hard life. Thanks to Phoebe and Reek, they had revealed to Ramsay (and to anyone else who would listen) that Tyrion was a bit of a fan of his red wines and drank to escape the pain of such a hard life.

But what hurt the young woman the most, he believed, was the insecurity. The internal brokenness that only a person exposed to abuse could ever experience. The mental scars were a tapering factor in the serenity of Sansa Stark’s domestic noble life when she'd lived with the family of lions. They caused agony that could only be seen on the inside.

The pain that only Ramsay seemed to care to notice, because, well. No one else, except for perhaps the young woman's husband, cared. The stories and troubling accusations that Sansa told the kitchen wenches whenever they thought to ask only grew worse as more time passed, the more they learned.

"Mind the ice!" Ramsay called out harshly over the fierce winds as he watched the young redhead tread lightly across the frozen surface of the frozen-over lakebed towards the spot where Sansa had noticed a flock of cardinals.

Ramsay stopped. The lake was strange. The ice wasn't flat like it should be, but rather it was broken. "More like the bark of a tree," the soldier mused. In the cracks, the water was discolored, more like glacial meltwater in its brilliant blue. He crouched down to detect the aroma, it was like nothing he'd ever smelt before, not bitter not sweet, not like pollution.

Taking a stick, he poked at the ice and it was as solid as it looked. Ramsay dipped the stick into the water, and it moved in just the way it should, only slower. The ripples radiated out as the young man expected, but almost as if in slow motion. He took his eyes off the water and stood up, listening, and watching. All was quiet tonight. 

_Too quiet_ , he thought darkly.

Hardly even a breeze in the trees. Ramsay chuckled turned to say something to the woman of his affections when he heard a splash.

Whirling around, his blood quite literally went cold at what he saw. A cracked piece of ice in the middle of the pond, and a hole just the size of a young woman in her twenties. "Fuck,” he growled through gritted teeth. Not caring if he too fell in the river, Ramsay bolted towards the point of the origin for the accident. For Sansa, she had only cared about what was above her, trying to see what she could, admiring the beautiful cardinals.

The colors of the water around her swirled and clouded her vision, leaving nothing but white spots. She let out a startled cry as she realized nothing was happening as her foot had faltered, and she'd slipped on the thick ice. The ice broke beneath her boots: cold water, no breath, no pain whatsoever. The evening winter's moonlight that was only seconds ago so strong was now a blur. Her arms flailed against the icy water that stole the heat from every part of her skin. Her head hit the ice.

Bubbles brushed her cheek. One hand found the gap, shooting into the wintry air, hoping Ramsay or someone else would see it. Sansa a little before asking her body for one final push for the light. Darkness and icy coldness enveloped her completely. The water closed in around her, filling the young woman with a sense of panic and deep dread.

She held her breath as long as she could, too long, in fact. Red and black splotches danced in front of her and she could not remember if her eyes were open or closed.

The coldness she had felt upon entering the water was completely gone. A desperate hot wave had come over her, warming even her frosted toes in her now drenched, icy, and probably ruined, brown boots.

Her heart was beating rapidly in panic. The urgency for air was more apparent than ever. There were not red blotches in her field of vision anymore. It was all black, nothing but darkness. He opened her mouth, gasping for air, and then nothing. Poor Sansa moved her arms like she was climbing rocks, but it was only ice water around—water that washed around her body, preventing access to precious air. After only a few seconds of being completely submerged, her brain was in full panic mode, there were no coordinated movements, just clawing through the thick liquid that threatened to invade her lungs.

From her lips came an explosion of air bubbles, moving away from her at a peculiar angle. Sansa almost realized she wasn't facing upwards, that she was struggling perpendicular to the surface, that she could, if she strained to listen, almost faintly hear Ramsay’s shouts above.

Already, her thoughts were groggy.

Her limbs slowed, stopped, and she began floating in the ice water of the lake like a limp child's rag doll. That was when he saw _him._ The wretched little bastard of a boy king, Joffrey Baratheon, swimming upward from beneath the icy depths of the River Seine to pull her down with him, to drown her in this icy, watery grave.

But she knew it was only a vision, one that her mind had created to ease the painful death of drowning so horribly and unexpected like this, but it seemed so…so _real_. Even if she were to die unceremoniously like this, she knew Jehan was no angel of death. She briefly wondered if Joffrey was tasked with lighting the way to the dimension the departing soul would be bound to for their next life. He swam toward her.

But then the boy-king seemed to pause, eyeing Sansa completely submerged in the water much like a curious dog would look at something it was not sure if it could trust or not, and if it was deciding whether she was safe to eat.

A brilliant shade of brown met her own, though her vision was fading and fast, and a wrist—was it Ramsay's?—grabbed onto her wrist, and slowly, Sansa was towed up towards the nightlife above, back to her real life, to where Tyrion waited for her back home in the warmth of their bedchambers within Winterfell’s walls. Her body shook so violently on the ice as she was pulled out of the icy water that she could not form a coherent thought due to the incessant chattering of her teeth and how soaked through to the bone that Sansa was.

Her stomach contracted so violently, she didn't even care who it was that had saved her and was watching her suffering as she retched up the water that had only moments ago filled her lungs and threatened to drown her. Her lungs drank in the freezing air in noisy rasps and again, the hands came, urgent voices—did the voice belong to Ramsay?

Her husband? Or was it Phoebe or even Theon’s voice? She did not know. Instructions. Someone, probably Ramsay, was telling Sansa to stay awake, not to go to sleep as the young soldier hurried wrapped his cloak around the young woman's violent, convulsing form.

The bastard was talking to her, asking her what the hell had happened. "S—slipped," she mumbled, casting her eyes downward, not wanting to meet Ramsay's gaze. Begrudgingly, she had to admit that she owed him her life. Ramsay said not a word at first, wrapping the young woman in a warm swaddle of blankets and then embraced her into a tight embrace, a hug. Sansa, at first startled and shocked by the sudden gesture, quickly returned the gesture, not sure what else to do in the moment.

Ramsay wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, gently rubbing her back in small circles. Despite the heaviness and the icy feeling in the pit of her stomach, it fluttered a little at the selfless act Ramsay had just performed.

Despite their differences, for reasons she could not yet explain, the man had saved her life. For that, she owed him.

She sunk into the warmth of his side, appreciative of the simple gesture. His touch made the air a little warmer somehow, and she was grateful.

"What happened, Sansa?" Ramsay demanded hotly, his voice hard and rigid, his facial muscles tense, and his left eye began twitching randomly.

"S—slipped," she repeated hoarsely. Suddenly, her throat hurt. "You…saved…me, w—why?" she whispered through the continued incessant chattering of her teeth.

Sansa bit her lip to keep from biting her tongue off and fell silent as he grasped her by her elbow and wrenched her to her feet, draping an arm over her shoulder and supported most of her weight.

"What were you _thinking_?" he snarled, his brows furrowing in a concern state as he scowled, regarding the young woman as he, upon seeing that she could no longer walk as her frozen state had thrown off her equilibrium, he gingerly lifted her in his arms and began to carry her bridal style back to the safety and warmth of the castle. "Didn't I _tell_ you to mind the ice?"

If Ramsay was being honest with himself, he did not like how the young woman in his arms looked. Her lips were tinged blue, her face stark white. Dark circles had begun to form underneath her eyes as the cold wind moved in to meet the warmth of the young redhead’s blood, as well as Ramsay's, their only defense against such ice and chill aside from their clothes, though Sansa's were currently soaked through to the bone and would do her no good.

If he did not get her back inside soon, she would freeze. Both Sansa and Ramsay felt the cold wash over their skin, again and again, only to be met by the beating of their hearts, again and again.

The truth was, as hard as it was, given the soldier was now supporting her weight, if Ramsay kept moving and doing what he could to keep the dwarf's wife safe and warm, then they might both make it out of this alive. They would win this battle. The ones who stopped were the ones who froze to death. There was a shriek from the trees that startled poor Sansa, whose nerves were already frayed from her near-death experience of drowning. Ramsay noticed and gave her shoulder a tender, encouraging squeeze.

"Don't look at it," he advised. "It's just a branch twisting under the weight of all this ice," he grumbled darkly, keeping his eyes cast warily to the trees, but then his attention was drawn back towards the woman in his arms. But Sansa could not help but be drawn to it.

Something about the snowy path back to the castle rendered her speechless and unable to look away from its almost blindingly white hue. It was so…so…well…white. Staring at it was like staring at nothing, and to stare at it, she imagined herself engulfed in the vast loneliness that was this frigid storm.

Oh, why had she ventured out? Had it been to escape Ramsay? To clear her head. Why? Now, look! "T—Tyrion's g—going to…kill me," she whispered, still struggling to reign in control of the chatting of her teeth. She glanced down at her dress and cloak, both of which as well as her boots were soaked through to the bone, frozen.

Under a pitch-black sky, the colors of the world became dull and muted, and yet…there was something about the pathway back to Winterfell that rendered it beautiful, at least in Sansa's eyes, it did.

The path sparkled and crunched, like sugar underfoot, and the coldness of the woods brought the young redhead into life right now, into this beautiful, chilling moment of life.

The trees showed their lofty arms once more, a smile playing upon Sansa's freezing lips, which were now still tinged a slight blue color.

A fact that troubled Ramsay Bolton greatly. "Come on," he urged, shifting her against his chest closer for warmth, finally reaching the top steps of Winterfell, where, he was not at all surprised to see him waiting for her.

"What in the seven hells happened," Tyrion moaned, having eyes only for his wife, rushing down the steps halfway to meet Ramsay. His expression was livid, his facial muscles pulled taut with rage and disbelief.

"She fell in the water," Ramsay sighed, feeling his muscles tense, fully preparing for another one of the dwarf's outbursts.

The man's shaggy hair was disheveled. He was looking livid, but as he looked at his wife, his rage seemed to dissipate. Tyrion glanced towards Ramsay, a muscle in his jaw twitching. His eyes narrowed, but what he said next surprised the man. "Thank you," he said at last, though he seemed to say it with great difficulty.

Too stunned to respond to the expression of gratitude, Ramsay could only nod, trailing close behind as the dwarf wasted no time in heading inside.

Tyrion did not speak too much to Ramsay or his wife as he ushered her upstairs to their bedroom, bidding Sansa sit on a pile of cushions, gathering any extra blankets he could find and working quickly to light a fire.

He seemed to have momentarily forgotten the bastard was in their bedroom, for which Ramsay was extremely grateful for. The last thing he wanted to be another beating. The fireplace was their tiny sun for the night, casting long shadows over their bedchambers. The flames curled and swayed, flicking this way and that, crackling as they burned the dry wood.

"Yeah, yeah, that's good," whispered Sansa as her husband and Ramsay both returned with two extra blankets, draping them around her shoulders. She shivered still, but the color was slowly returning to her cheeks and her lips were no longer blue, so that was something, at least.

"You fell in the lake, didn't you?" he asked, blue eyes wide and round.

Teeth still chattering, Sansa nodded. It felt so good to feel the fire's warmth at last, even if it was only coming from one direction. She watched, hypnotized, holding out her hands to get just a little more of its gentle heat, loving it as the fire filled her with warmth.

The wood fire, blazing lazily sent its warmth and light out into her and Tyrion's dimly lit, slightly drafty bedchamber, but it did nothing to warm the ice-cold look Tyrion was giving his wife.

Ramsay, in a bold move, decided to intervene before things could escalate and do whatever he could to placate Lady Sansa. They were, after all, to marry on the morrow, and the last thing he wanted was an unhappy wife.

"It was my fault," he began, but the dwarf held up a hand, ignoring him, seemingly only has eyes for his wife.

He also chose to ignore the dark warning look Ramsay shot him, who had noticed the growing danger in his brother's eyes and shot out an arm in front of Sansa to protect her.

When Tyrion found his voice, his tone was clipped and hard. Angry.

"What were you _thinking_?" her husband growled lowly, balling his hands into fists, clenching, and unclenching them as he struggled to bite back the worst of his temper. Letting out a haggard sigh, he collapsed onto the cushion next to his wife and draped yet another blanket tighter around her shoulders.

Sansa could see it in her husband's eyes, the anger from them showed the scared man within, the man who, at a young age, was taught to obey, and was starved of the love he craved from a lack of parental figures in his life, though he was admittedly doing much better these days now that he had her in his life, she could see her husband's pain beneath his eyes and his soul drowning in the hard person he had been forced to adapt to survive Tywin Lannister and the likes of Cersei.

"I…I'm sorry, Tyrion. I—I should have told you where I was going," she mumbled, her hoarse voice barely above a whisper as she tried her hardest to avoid her husband's piercing dark stare that threatened to burn a hole in the back of her skull.

Tyrion, though she hated to admit it, at times had a talent for making her feel uneasy whenever he was upset over something. Sansa had always hated that ability like he possessed the means to see past her eyes and could bore deep to the very depths of her soul and shook her to her core.

Tyrion swallowed his anger when it was merely a fire-seed and forgot to drink something cold, so it grew within the pits of his stomach until it came out as hot as any dragon had ever flamed, just like in the stories, on the person he loved and cared for the most. His wife.

Sansa wrapped the blanket tighter around herself and swallowed the lump forming in her throat as she visibly winced and cringed away from her husband's burning rage. It seemed to hiss through his body like a deadly poison, demanding a release.

Still, Sansa forced out yet another apology if she thought it might diffuse the worst of the tension in their room. If tension were a color, the air would have been scarlet as Tyrion pulled up another chair and dragged it noisily across the floor, gingerly helping her to sit up in the chair.

"I—I know I should have told you where I was going, and it was after curfew and it goes against what you and I talked about, but I couldn't just—"

" **I DON'T CARE ABOUT THE RULES**!" Tyrion bellowed, the last vestiges of his patience with his wife finally breaking.

His knuckles were white as he gripped the arms of her chair and leaned forward, the tip of his nose practically touching hers as she shrank back in her chair as far as she could go. "You—you almost died tonight, you stupid woman, because you did not listen to me!"

He felt his face flush hot with anger and shame. Were it not for his carelessness and had he minded his surroundings a little bit better, he would have noticed Sansa's absence at dinner in the kitchens with Phoebe and Lord Roose tonight.

"Don't talk to her like that!" snapped Ramsay harshly, coming to sit by her other side. "It wasn't her fault. She wasn't minding where she stepped, and she slipped and fell. It was an _accident_ ," he emphasized angrily.

Tyrion turned his wrath on Ramsay.

" _You_. You were stalking her again, weren't you?" he accused, his dark eyes narrowing as he glowered at Ramsay. He snorted at the incredulous look in the young soldier's eyes. "Don't think I don't pay attention. I know more about this situation than you think." He couldn't help but read in between the lines of Ramsay's comment and felt the all too familiar deep burning feeling warred angrily within his chest and up into his throat. He needed to know the truth. And he needed to know it _now_ before anything else happened. "Before we go any further," he warned, his tone clipped and sharp, his grip still clutching onto Ramsay's tunic. "I have to know the truth. What happened out there? You followed her! Why?" he demanded harshly. "And don't even _think_ about lying to me."

Ramsay's own features hardened and settled into a very serious expression. "I know what you are going to ask. There's no need for this, my friend. You have nothing to fear from me. I swear it."

He continued to keep the man under his piercing gaze, never letting on that he was going to let this go. "Don’t call me that,” he spat venomously. “You attacked my wife back in King’s Landing, you half-wit. You are no friend to me, Bastard. Somehow, I don't believe you."

The dark-haired man sighed, hanging his head for a moment, then looked up to meet the younger dwarf's harsh scrutiny head-on.

"Like it or not, Imp, I am to marry your wife on the morrow on the simple basis that you have not gotten her with child yet. Accept that fact right here and now that your marriage is null and void. It is worthless.”

Tyrion narrowed his eyes at him in both disbelief and anger. In truth, he did not believe a word that the soldier was telling him.

He needed the entire truth. Sansa had told him that there was nothing on her side of the agreement, but it was _him_ that concerned the dwarf. What were this man's true intentions towards his _wife_? "She's taken."

"Yes, you've made that perfectly clear," snapped Ramsay sarcastically.

"I want the truth, Ramsay!" he growled threateningly, leaning into the captain's face and never once breaking eye contact with the man. "Are your intentions towards her noble or not? Or have you just been using her this whole time for your advantage?" he bellowed, fully angered now.

Lord Roose’s son looked absolutely appalled by his words and suddenly, he was the one leaning in towards him. "How _dare_ you claim that I have nothing but honest intentions? Who the hell do you think—?"

"And what is that?" He was fully shouting now, his breathing heavy, and his emotions ranging from fear to pure onslaught. He was fuming.

Ramsay pulled away from him then, shaking his head in a sad fashion. "I would have thought it obvious, Imp. Or have you not the faintest idea of what goes on in that girl's head?" he demanded, gesturing towards the dwarf's wife with a jerk of his thumb as he glowered at him. "Clearly not!"

"What are you talking about?" His volume dropped to an almost inaudible level, but anger and confusion plain as day lingered in his voice.

Ramsay glared at the dwarf in an equal anger fashion. "It's not my place to say! The answer to your question is right there!" he shouted, pointing a slightly trembling finger towards Sansa, whose face paled.

It occurred to Ramsay just how much rudeness one must be forced to endure when he could just as easily take the fucking little cunt of a dwarf down below to his own private chambers and flay him alive until there was no skin left on his bones.

A chill ran through Sansa's blood as she heard her husband's yell of anguish. A quick glance off to the side told her that even Phoebe couldn't help her out of this one. It would be up to her.

It made her shudder as a freezing cold wind of winter would wake someone. Her blood ran cold and a bead of sweat dripped down her face. She sat there on the cushion, swaddled in at least three different blankets, not knowing what to do and too scared to even think of another apology to come to her mind. She was at a loss for words.

Tyrion regarded the frozen state of his wife for a moment, before leaning back against his chair and closing his eyes tiredly.

The bags underneath his eyes were still prominent and he still appeared very pale. It became clear to them all that he was well on the way to recovery but not out of the woods yet. The sigh that escaped the dwarf's lips was slow as if his brain needed that time to process what had, yet again, almost happened to his wife this eve. His eyes remained fixed on the roaring fire, as though he could not hear Sansa's feeble attempt to apologize yet again for her foolishness, or her exhausted tone.

Tyrion let out another weary sigh, this one more of a signal to his wife, and to Phoebe and Ramsay, too, he supposed. Not one of anger or his resolve leaving, but of the level that his tension had reached, thanks to her.

He was, in this moment, more like an old kettle, still full even when some of the steam had already forced its way out. Letting out a groan, he wearily rubbed his temples with his fingers, every so often sparing Sansa a furtive glance out of the corner of his eyes, watching her, interested.

She was terrified. "I…I'm sorry," he apologized, sounding pained. "I just…it scared me this evening, what almost happened to you, sweetheart," he said reluctantly. "You weren't at dinner, so I waited outside for you. Had I known you wanted to go for a walk, I could have gone with you!" he exclaimed angrily. He irritably brushed away something her handmaiden, Phoebe, said under her breath.

"F—Ramsay," Sansa stammered, her cobalt blue eyes suddenly lighting up with a ferocious intensity that Tyrion was not sure to make off in his wife. "He—he saved me, Tyrion. I don't know how or why b—but he did. I owe him."

Tyrion said nothing in response. He merely furrowed his brows into a thoughtful frown, lost in his wife's words. _She seems to trust him, but I can't_. His wife was resilient, he would give her that. She seemed to hold out hope for the bastard son of Roose Bolton, that he could change.

Tyrion highly doubted it, but who was he to deny his wife of that hope that perhaps someday, he might? "Did he?" he asked, careful to keep his tone as neutral as possible. Not giving her a chance to respond, Tyrion sighed and fetched his wife a bowl of soup in a chipped wooden bowl. It wasn't much, but it would have to do for now.

Sansa's eyes grew wide and round at the sight of the bread loaf he brought over for the two of them to accompany their steaming bowls of soup. It was a hearty-looking loaf with nuts and raisins, probably from the baker's a village or two over, near Winterfell, for he knew old Hilde, the head cook, could not make such a delicacy in her old age.

Just its aroma should have been enough to transport Sansa back to a time of happier memories before Ramsay and Joffrey plaguing her days and nights before Ramsay stalking and hounding her every move.

"I—I d—don't believe him to be so cold," Sansa chattered, taking a bite of hot soup, and wincing as the practically scalding bite scorched her tongue.

"Careful," he muttered sardonically. "It's hot."

Were this any other circumstance, he would have been gentler towards his wife, but he was still angry with her. She had disappeared and had, as a result, not only risked her own life and almost drowned.

Sansa frowned as she shoveled another bite of broth into her mouth, ripping off a chunk of bread from the loaf with her teeth. "Tyrion?"

Her husband merely grunted in response, still clearly annoyed with her.

"You can yell at me," she whispered timidly. "Scream if you want. But…"

"Talk to me," he finished, already knowing what she was going to say. "Are you all right? I…you know why I'm mad?"

"Yes," she whispered, nodding. Another cold chill traveled down her spine and she wrapped the thick woolen blanket around herself tighter for warmth. Sansa glanced up from her bowl of soup and studied her husband's face, what little of it she could see in the dimly lit room.

The candle on the table nearby flickered, thought that was slowly dwindling down to an ember. Sansa could not see the laughter in his eyes or a smile twitching at his lips.

Instead, for just a moment, he appeared almost skeletal, deranged. His eye sockets lay as empty pools of water, the weak yellow and orange glow from the light only illuminating enough to make him spookier than the darkness alone could ever be.

"I'm sorry. Next time I go, you go too," she promised, clutching his hand in hers, settling it on her lap. "We're a family, you and me. I know that, know.” Sansa fought hard to stay awake as her husband pulled her close, gingerly rubbing her shoulder and trying what he could to warm her body.

The taxing events of her little slip into the lake soon caught up with her as her husband's soft, tenor-like voice grew fainter as their conversation came to an end. She felt this strange blackness come over her. Like a blanket, but not a blanket of warmth, but a blanket of coldness making her shiver. Her fingertips still tingled, though whether it was from the icy frigidness of the river or from where Joffrey had touched her in the water and had tried to drag her down to her watery grave below, she didn't know.

But somehow, it was making her eyes feel heavier and heavier. Sansa finally fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, at last, nestled against Tyrion's chest. Tyrion watched his wife cocoon herself in the thick of the three woolen blankets he'd wrapped her in, nestled by the fire, content to sleep against him.

As he watched her sleep soundly, her chest rising and falling to her own rhythm, the man was suddenly hit with a feeling of great unease for Sansa. Dread crept down his spine like a careful spider leaving a trail of silk. He felt her feet on his skin, descending until he was almost frozen to his chair. His stomach was full of lead, his mind worryingly empty, save for one thought. He could not shake the feeling that Sansa was in danger. But from what, he did not know.

The fear he felt for his wife was making him calm, and that was what scared Tyrion the most.


	32. Sansa

** Sansa **

How many more times must she go through with this? First cast aside by Joffrey Baratheon in favor of Margaery Tyrell, and then she had married Tyrion when she was no longer wanted by the boy-king, and she was moderately happy with the man, but now, forced to wed the Bastard of Bolton himself when she was already still technically legally married, though, thanks to the laws of Man, since she was not yet pregnant with a child after several weeks, it was of the belief that their marriage was null and void, and now… _this is my fate_ ….

The gods really were vicious bastards, though Lord Tyrion had another word for them, she had, perhaps for better or worse, agreed to the terms of the union if it meant that Lord Tyrion would be safe from harm’s way.

Sansa swallowed nervously and regarded Phoebe’s reflection in the mirror opposite the small chest of drawers in her and Lord Tyrion’s bedchambers.

She blinked back salty, briny tears as the young blonde patiently, with nimble fingers, working quickly to weave flowers in through her waterfall braid. A knock at her door interrupted the pair of women, and Sansa swallowed down hard past the growing lump in her throat as it hollowed and constricted.

“Come in,” she managed to call out after several long, agonizing minutes.

Lord Tyrion entered, his expression taut and grim, though she thought him looking almost effortlessly handsome in a simple crimson jerkin, his hair having been recently trimmed by Phoebe earlier. “Lady Sansa,” he answered curtly.

Sansa bit the wall of her cheek and exhaled a sigh of relief as Phoebe stepped back to admire her handiwork and studied Sansa’s figure in her eye-catching wedding dress of blue velvet and lace, which set off the fiery tones of her auburn hair. She glanced at the yellow gold wedding band on her left hand and furrowed her brows into a frown. “I can’t believe they are making me do this. It is not fair, it’s cruelly unfair. Ramsay Bolton is a bastard of the highest order and he will _never_ be my husband, Tyrion. You are, and always will be. Surely, there’s a way out of this, husband? Isn’t there? There has to be. I should—I should kill myself before I let Bolton lay a finger on me tonight,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

Tyrion gave a curt nod, though there was no mistaking the hurt laced throughout his voice. “Only if Ramsay discovers you’re expecting, Lady Stark,” he answered grimly, abruptly turning his head away to avoid looking at her.

It was then that a truly wicked and horrible idea began to take root in Sansa’s mind, the very night of her wedding to the Skinflayer.

“Couldn’t I…?” She bit her bottom lip in hesitation and painfully twisted her hands together, her right hand’s fingers coming to fidget with the gold wedding band Tyrion had bequeathed her. Sansa cast her gaze downward. “What if I faked it? He would not touch me then?” she asked nervously.

Tyrion blinked, seemingly startled by his wife’s line of questionings, but he quickly gave a curt nod. “There are…certain mixtures, potions, essences, that Maester Qyburn could…shall, we say, slip into your wine, that would ah…induce and give off the symptoms that women carry when pregnant.”

“Do it. Now. Send for Qyburn, please, Phoebe,” she commanded. “Tell him of our situation and tell him to bring his strongest collections to me at once. I cannot—will not—let that bastard ruin our marriage, Lord Tyrion…”

“Lady Sansa, wait!” Tyrion pleaded. “If you do this, there is a chance you could do irreparable harm to your body if these…medications are taken in excessive dosages. You should run for it,” he breathed, his blue eyes aglint with a mischievousness that she had not seen in him since Joffrey Baratheon’s death.

“But you are coming with me, husband. Where you go, I go too, that is our arrangement, milord!” Sansa protested, kneeling down by his side, and clutching onto his hands, and suppressed a half-choked sob as he shook his head no.

“I cannot. I…am not a good runner, milady, and I would only slow you down. Besides, if I go with you, then he will know that I orchestrated the escape. The lady Brienne of Tarth and Podrick are already laying in wait for you at the edge of the woods. You must go, and tonight. Get away from here as far as you can, hide somewhere, and I promise that as soon as I can, I will come to find you,” he encouraged. “I know that you only agreed to this union for my sake, Lady Sansa and because I did not want you to worry more than you already were, and for that, the fault is mine. I should never have allowed you to agree to this union. I should have…taken you away from King’s Landing, from Winterfell, even. We could have gone to Pentos or—or Dorne. The pain that I carry in my chest when I look at you these days, Sansa, is…inexplicable. I know you agreed to this marriage to Lord Roose’s son, that it was primarily for my benefit, but…I want you to leave Winterfell. You cannot marry that man…”

Before Sansa could so much as open her mouth to protest his last statement, Tyrion shook his head and continued. "Seeing you get away from me hurts, more than you know. Even though I want to hold you and keep you by my side for a longer time, it seems like you keep drifting farther and farther away from me. As much as I know it's the best for me, for you and for everyone, I didn't expect you to get out of my life someday. I'll never forget the moments you laughed with me, cried with me, helped me. Different from the others, I don't regret any of those memories. Thank you for everything. I hope that I will see you again in a few days.”

Sansa swallowed hard, unable to stop that one single tear from running down her cheeks in a gentle tract. "I…leaving you here alone is killing me, as sure as a dagger would stop my beating heart. But…I think that if I am to survive, it is the only way. If there was no hope at all, I would stay by your side, and choose to die in the dark, for without you by my side, Tyrion, then I should choose not to exist, for you to leave me alone to fend off Ramsay’s advances would be a fate crueler than death itself. If I stay…I lose you for certain. I do not know how, but I think that Ramsay would leverage your health against me. But if I flee this place, then…there is the chance that one day we could be together again and live a life of peace. I pray that you understand, milord, and I wish that there was something that I could do, that you could come with me…" She reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze, being careful to be mindful of the tendons in his fingers. "Come with me," Sansa breathed, her cobalt eyes widening at the suggestion. "Oh, come with me, Tyrion, and leave this place! Please!"

Tyrion’s eyes grew wide and round and he rapidly shook his head in response, much to his wife’s immense disappointment. "No. I cannot. I am short, a—and I cannot run very well, and I would only slow you down.”

Sansa flinched, suddenly feeling guilty. Even she had no idea where she would go once she had fled from her new…home, only that distance was the only thing that would matter and getting as far away from Ramsay as possible. She hadn't quite thought ahead to that part. One step at a time, her conscience reminded herself helpfully. That as much as she longed to stay with Tyrion and care for him, but if she stayed here, Ramsay would surely kill her, whether by his own hand or hers, Sansa did not know, nor did she wish to find out.

There was such sadness in Tyrion’s eyes that did not match the smile that formed upon his handsome face, that Sansa could hardly bear it.

"Try not to think of the leaving part," Sansa whispered, leaning forward, and pressing her lips to his forehead in a gentle kiss that lingered. "Though I leave you, I will return," she answered, feeling her resolve to return to her in a brief moment of strength. "I give you my word," Sansa promised. "I will come back for you. I promise. Our lives together are like circles, spiraling into one big giant mess," she chuckled.

"That they are, my dear," Tyrion smiled sadly, clasping his hand over top hers, though his grip slackened, and he reluctantly removed his hand from his daughter. "You should go," he urged. "You will have the cover of the moonlight. Stick to the edge of the woods if you can. Ramsay will think to look for you if you follow the main path out of Winterfell.”

Sansa gave a swift nod of her head, signaling that she understood, and packed the last few of her belongings, which was not much. A handkerchief, her wedding ring she had contemplated leaving behind somewhere conspicuous for Ramsay Bolton to find but decided against it. If she left behind any evidence that she had willingly fled from him, there was a strong possibility the hunter would take it out on Tyrion. That she simply could not allow.

She darted haphazardly through the simple room with tears streaming down her face. She did not want to leave the one person behind that made Sansa feel loved.

All of this was soon going to be gone the minute she crossed the threshold of the entryway of her bedroom, down into the crypts, and out into the heart of the godswoods. Alone. Sansa flung her arms around Tyrion’s neck and hugged her husband, sobbing into his chest. She did not want to let go, because Sansa knew that if she relinquished her grip upon her husband, she would not be able to hold him again.

"I don't know how I'm supposed to do this without you," Sansa cried, whispering it into the shell of his ear. She stifled a half-choked sob of anguish out of the back of her throat. “I don’t know if I have the strength enough to do this on my own.”

"Ah, milady," he sighed. "That is where you are wrong, and as your husband, I must correct you. I'll find you." And just like that as he pulled away, Sansa was left with the slightest flicker of hope. It was not very big, quite small. Just a flicker against a bitterly cold wind, but it was going to have to be enough.

Sansa swallowed, blinking back briny tears as she pulled away from Tyrion and gripped his hand tightly. "I love you," she whispered, hating hearing the crack and dip in her voice, and with one last tear shedding down her face, she let go of his hand, gathered her belongings in the small satchel Tyrion and Phoebe had helped her to pack and bolted for the front door. This was it.

This was goodbye. She ambled her way to the door and just before she grasped onto the handle, Sansa risked one last glance at her husband one last time, wishing that this would all just be a dream she would wake from.

But it wasn't. This was the dire situation of her new reality, and reality was hurting her more than her nightmares. Sansa gingerly closed the door of her old bedroom behind her and did the only thing that she could as she walked.

She was smart enough not to look back.

* * *

Sansa, true to her word to stay safe, kept to the woods that lay at the edge of the castle’s borders as she descended into the dark woods, walking down the dirt paths, feeling rough cracks and twigs through the thin soles of her boots.

The wind which carried the bitter breeze moved as though Sansa were not there at all, as if she were a ghost and nothing more. Through the canopy of the trees came an eerie melancholy sort of a tune, all of it with as much flow as winter ice. And all at once, Sansa felt like the very air that surrounded her in these unfamiliar accursed woods that she was sure to get lost in if she could not find her way felt like water, and she felt as though she were drowning in this sea of indifference, desperate to swim up beyond the cloudy night skies to the bright stars above.

Sansa exhaled a slightly shaking breath through her nose, her lips parted open slightly as she breathed in cold bursts of fresh air. She lifted her head to the heavens above and spoke to her husband, though she knew he could not hear. "There is such sadness in leaving a place of strong love, a place where fond memories grew as fast as the clover in the grass. I know I will savor each memory so strongly that it will almost live once more. I know that the strands of love will keep us together even when we are far apart. I only have to reach out with my mind and there you are, waiting to shower me with the love you always did. But right now, it is my time to depart, to do what I was born to do, to make the changes, and the sacrifices that are necessary. Don't think that me leaving means I love you less, know that it means I love you more. And…I will come back for you, Tyrion. I promise. I gave you my word. We will see each other again. I promise to bring Brienne and come back to you. I swear it, by the old gods and the new."

Taking another deep breath to steel her nerves, Sansa stared at the path at her fed, as it led into the darkness of the woods. Yet follow it she had to, for the sake of her own life, and to ensure her lord husband’s safety from Ramsay’s wrath. And so, her feet followed the narrow strip of naked earth among the giants of root and leaf. She let her hands ghost against the gnarled bark as Sansa passed each tree, which seemed more giant to her than the previous one she passed. Sansa could swear the trees were talking to each other, as their trunks and limbs seemed to sway in the breeze, making low groaning sounds.

She shuddered and shook her head vehemently to try to rid her mind of such thoughts. _Trees can't talk, Sansa. You have indulged in too many fantastical books during your childhood. It's affected my mind. Grow up_ , she scolded herself, feeling her fingers curl into a tight protective fist over the strap of her satchel. It felt as though the trees' gentle spirits were trying to soothe her own.

For this was their world as the trees stretched towards the light they never would see and yet they sensed, and Sansa knew to get anywhere, she would have to do the same. To open up her mind and her other senses. To sound, to the aroma, and listen so very carefully to every instinct.

With a startled cry of surprise, Sansa let out a squeak of fear as she stumbled over what appeared to be a twisted tree root, or more likely, if she was being honest with herself, it was probably her own foot. The roots in these woods appeared to at times, have a mind of their own, at least, Sansa's overactive imagination was leading her to believe that.

It had to have been at least an hour since she had parted ways with her husband and bade him a temporary farewell, and it seemed like she had been lost in this forsaken forest for quite some time now. Time did not flow clearly here. The tree branches above Sansa's head were so thick that even now she could no longer tell if it was night or day. Everything here was so incredibly disorienting. Something was certainly off about these woods, though what it was, even Sansa could not formulate an apt response in her mind as to why the forest was making her feel the way that it was.

Though if Sansa were being completely honest with herself, she had perhaps been overconfident in her initial assessment that she could easily make her way through the forest, as long as she stayed on the path. That was easy. She had been confident that as long as she followed the dirt path in the woods that (hopefully) headed towards safety, towards Brienne and Podrick, then she would be safe and just fine and the three of them could conspire to find a way to retrieve Tyrion from Winterfell and free of the Bolton’s clutches.

But now…she was most assuredly not fine. These damned woods made no sense at all, and Sansa very quickly into her journey soon found herself lost. Lost, alone, and very much frightened and afraid. Stepping into the woods robbed the young redhead of one sense and heightened all the others. It was disorienting to be almost blinded but given the ears of a wolf and…oh, wolves!

There was rumored to be wolves in this forest, ones who wouldn't hesitate to eat her alive if given the chance should she have the unfortunate luck to stumble across one of them. Direwolves, even, if the rumors of any being left alive were true. Even the soft susurration of the branches felt heavy in her ears. Her sense of smell was sensitized, the loam in the earth and the decomposing of the fall leaves that fell from their branches to join their fallen brethren on the ground made the atmosphere in the woods close and thick.

The blackness nurtured within Sansa a horrible sense of claustrophobia inside her, though the woodland seemed to stretch on for miles with seemingly no end in sight for the poor lost girl. The narrow path that Sansa had chosen to follow, which was made uneven by the knotted roots that crossed it, branched at intervals. There was no map for Sansa to follow, but even if she had been in possession of one, the perpetual dark would have prevented Ned Stark's eldest daughter from using it to guide her way out of this forsaken place.

The barren branches of the trees spiked into the sky—no sign of life other than Sansa to be found anywhere, a fact which greatly unnerved her.

It was so dark, as she reached out a hand in front of her, blindly groping in the hopes she would find something—anything to rest her hand upon and guide her way, she could barely see where she was going. There was only the sound of the rustling branches and the eerie howl of the wind at her back. Sansa did not know what lay ahead of her in this dark forest, or what new life awaited her once she reached the heart of the woods.

But what she did know was that it wasn't going to be a pleasant journey. Sansa stifled a groan as she forced herself to take one step forward, and then another. Her feet hurt, screaming within her boots, the forming blisters on the backs of her heels begging her to stop and rest, and she felt tired, so incredibly exhausted, stressed, and quite frankly, overwhelmed. But Sansa felt a surge of determination course through her veins and she clenched her jaw shut.

She narrowed her eyes as she looked ahead, straining to see any signs of life ahead that she could spot, and…wait. Wait a second. "Is that a light?" Sansa breathed. It was quite dim, but it did seem to be there, perhaps a fellow traveler camping. For a moment, she felt exhilarated. The gods were kind to her, for they had provided for Sansa a way out of these cursed woods. It was a light.

A real, honest-to-goodness light. That was her way out, it just had to be. There could be no other explanation. Sansa was not entirely sure if she had spoken out loud to herself just now or if she'd had another inner musing again, but it mattered not. She decided to follow the light and make her way towards it and see where it led.

She clung to that flicker of hope that burned bright within her chest as she inched her way towards the light carefully, trying to be mindful to not let her small satchel or her gown snag on any outstretched, groping tree limbs. Sansa furrowed her brows into a frown as she continued staring at that strange light. But from which direction was it coming from? Was the thing she was so enamored with even a light guiding the way at all?

It was difficult for her to tell, but it was still there. If these woods were somehow magic and cursed, then the forest was doing an excellent job of playing tricks upon Sansa's somewhat susceptible and imaginative mind. She had to know. The light grew blindingly brighter as the young woman advanced upon the light, coming to a clearing of sorts. But what in the light of the seven’s name was it? Moonlight? A campfire from a band of pilgrims or travelers? Fireflies? Sansa sighed, letting out a cry of frustration as she hoped it was not just her mind playing tricks on her in its emotionally compromised state. She had already given up so much this eve. Her husband.

Sansa felt the wind tousle the skirts of her gown and tousle her wavy auburn hair into buoyant curls. "H—hello?" she called out timidly, cupping her hands around her face. She still could not see the source of this mysterious light that had led her into the clearing and was seemingly getting further away from her, no matter how many steps forward she could feel her footfalls taking her, apparently no longer taking directions from her mind and walking towards the light of their own accord.

"Hello? Brienne? Podrick?" she shouted. There was no answer. Sansa frowned, feeling her shoulders slump in defeat. "Perhaps it was the moon, then." Sansa's eyes caught the soft tumble of movement as her gaze followed a single red and brown leaf as it tumbled to the ground, drifting almost impossibly slowly from the branches just above her head that she had to duck to avoid getting hit by. Sansa tiredly shook her head and blinked her eyes, trying to clear the swirling haze of black mists from her vision.

"Hello?" She tried again. "Is someone out there?" Sansa called out in an uncertain voice. "Please! I—I'm lost!"

Silence. Silence gnawed at her insides. Silence hung in the air like the suspended moment before a falling glass shatters on the ground. The silence was like a gaping void, needing to be filled with sounds, words, anything. The silence was poisonous in its nothingness.

Silence clung to Sansa like a poisonous cloud that at any moment could choke the life from Sansa. Silence seeped into her every pore, like a poison slowly paralyzing Sansa from either speech or movement.

All Sansa could hear in response to her pleading calls were the sound of her own breaths, that sounded much too slow for her own comfort. Was she really breathing that slowly? She was going to most assuredly die if she kept on like this. She inhaled a sharp breath of cold fall air, attempting to force air to return to her lungs to ensure her breathing rate (and her heart rate) returned to something that resembled normalcy.

She felt like she was hyperventilating right now. The thoughts began accelerating inside Sansa's head. The girl wanted them to slow so she could breathe but they won't. Her breaths come in gasps and Sansa suddenly felt like she was on the verge of passing out from sheer exertion and stress. She could swear she could feel her heart hammering inside her chest as it belonged to a rabbit running for its skin.

An invisible hand clamped over Sansa's mouth, just as an equally ghostly surge of adrenaline pierced her heart, unloading in an instant. Sansa could feel her ribs heaving as if bound by ropes, straining to inflate her lungs.

Gods, why couldn't she breathe? Was she even still alive? There was a distance in Sansa's eyes as they glossed over, straining for any further signs of that mysterious light that had led her into the forest clearing, but none came to her. Her head felt like a myriad of fears rapidly spiraling out of her control, each one pushing her mind into a horrible blackness. She wanted to run. She needed to freeze. Sounds that were nearby suddenly sounded far off in the distance. As if she were no longer in the body that currently rested against the bark of an old oak tree as she slumped to the ground, pulling her knees up to her chest and trying to curl into herself for warmth as much as she possibly could. Her voice came out thin and distant as she let out a low whimper.

"What…no…I—I'm lost…that's…not…right." Sansa knew she was breathing all wrong, beginning to gasp like there was not enough air in these woods for her. Adrenaline flooded the young woman's system. It pumped and beat within her veins like it was trying to escape. She thought her heart would explode; her dark eyes wide with fear at the current state of her predicament. She was lost. Her body either wanted to run deeper into the heart of the woods, to try to seek shelter for the night, or back towards the way she had come and hope that she could find her way back to the pathway from there, but there was only one thing she could do.

Pray that nothing found her and killed her. Especially not the wolves. She swallowed hard. Sansa could feel the adrenaline surging so fast that she almost vomited, able to taste the saliva thickening in the back of her throat and coating her tongue, beads of sweat trickling down her delicate brow. The young woman could feel the sweat drench her skin and she let out another whimper of fear, wishing with all her might that she would have stayed. "At least I'd still be with you, Tyrion," she whispered, hating hearing the crack in her voice as she let herself cry. Her fingers curled into a fist, her nails digging into the skin of her palms.

She could not hear her rapid breathing, but she could feel the air flooding in and out of her lungs, though it felt like she was not breathing at all to her. Fear churned her stomach into intense cramps, engulfing her conscience and knocking all other thoughts aside. It overwhelmed her body, making it feel drastically exhausted, even more so than she already knew her body to be. She was lost in the woods, with no one coming to her aid to help guide her and light the path forward. All she was left with was this insurmountable fear, which created an uncomfortable pit deep within her stomach.

Sansa was well and truly lost…


	33. Ramsay

**Ramsay**

Ramsay had been pacing the floor of his father’s study for the last half hour, running his fingers through his dark hair, and growling in frustration, occasionally casting strange, longing glanced towards the door, waiting for Father to come and fetch him for the ceremony's commencement. 

What the hell had he been thinking? Not marrying the girl sooner? He knew she despised him. What if that prompted her to attempt to take her own life in an attempt to be noble, as the last act of defiance towards him? His heart felt cold, his mind having no further room for pity towards Sansa Stark. Though all he knew of the last woman of Winterfell was true.

That she was his. No one else’s. Especially not the fucking Imp's, whom he now had to deal with and figure out how to properly dispose of the accursed little whelp. At the thought of everything over the last few evenings that he had learned of Sansa Stark while in her company, it was that the prickly little redhead had become…quite the problem for Ramsay.

Ramsay exhaled a slightly shaking breath through his nose. He did not know exactly what had prompted him to speak to the girl as he had only mere hours ago. He supposed he ought to check on her. The young lord let out a growl of frustration and curled his strong hands into fists to prevent at striking out at something in anger, which was a first for him. Usually, he just allowed it to happen.

But ever since she had come into his life, that strange creature, Ramsay seemed to lose a little of his nerve (not to mention his temper).

He would act out irrationally, so much so that he did not feel as though he were in control of his own actions. And he felt as though he had no reason to be caught off guard, rattled by her theatrics and her outbursts. Part of him felt that he should have just let the Stark bitch girl drown in the lake.

It was nonsensical, the way that he had saved her life as he had. Ramsay, not quite wanting to go check on the girl just yet, turned towards the right and headed down the stairs towards the dungeons.

Maybe tormenting poor Reek would help put his mind at ease. Letting out another growl of frustration, he lifted a hand to his brow, feeling his temples begin to ache and throb, and he realized that it was the wine that he needed. Ramsay had never suffered from such a horrible problem before, how this celestial-like creature was getting under his skin, and what was even worse, was how he seemed to be allowing it to happen.

Partly because no woman had ever dared disobey him in the past, let alone speak back to him as Sansa had. He was used to women fawning over his good looks and lifting the hems of their dresses in order to gain even an ounce of the young lord’s attentions. Ramsay scowled, his lips pursing into a thin line. This damned insufferable woman. She was unlike any human he had ever encountered before, and this was not exactly in a good way.

He had only been in her presence but a small handful of times, and yet each time, it seemed as though he forgot that he was a bastard and, for a moment, who she was, and what his family had done. It was disconnecting. Sansa Stark made him feel on edge like his groin was going to explode following the commencement of their wedding ceremony later this evening. She made him feel… nervous. Nervous.

What in the gods' name was happening to him? Since when did he ever get fucking nervous?

"Fuck," he cursed through gritted teeth, his jaw clenched in anger and blue eyes narrowed. Ramsay could not reverse what he had allowed happening to Sansa Stark ever since she stepped through those doors of the new and improved estate. There was a small part of him that felt relieved, almost grateful in a way, that Sansa had looked at him just now with such scorn as if he were the very devil. In truth, she was wrong to think of him in those terms, but Ramsay had simply been too stunned to react rationally the first time he had met Sansa. Sansa was a far too outspoken woman, but somehow, he had let her get away it, not once, not twice, but thrice.

Perhaps he had saved her from suffering a horrible icy death because he had wanted to challenge her, as much as himself.

Find out what it was about this insufferable wench that made him seem so unhinged, and if he had allowed her to perish in those icy waters, he never would know the truth, and not knowing was a fate worse than any skin flaying. Ramsay smiled, and just the gesture enough alone was enough to make any sane man who happened to stumble across the bastard of Roose Bolton in that moment immediately turn on the heel of their boot and go the opposite direction. Well, not a fourth time.

When he finally did succeed in revealing her weak spot, and all he had to do was marry the girl, fuck her, and sire an heir, he would no doubt lose all interest in Stark and move on with his life. Ramsay frowned, folding his burly arms across his chest as he continued to ruminate over his thoughts as he sat on the top step of the grand stone stairwell. It was quiet. Too quiet almost. A creaking. There's something lurking in the shadows.

An evil no one but he could see. A monster that tormented the people of the estate. It sought out the weak and made itself a home inside their heads. Inside Ramsay's head…he could feel it, pounding and throbbing at the back of his skull, raging inside of him. Just under the surface. Just loud enough for him to hear, but there's a door in between them. Ramsay had locked it in a room the day Stark had dared to step foot back on the soil of her former home. He tried in vain to keep it away from the woman whom he was to marry this very eve. But it was still there…tearing through the holes, trying to reach what little was left of Ramsay's sanity. His humanity, what little of it he had been fortunate enough to possess in the first place. It was only a matter of time before it managed to break through and take total control.

It's been locked up for days, but the door Ramsay had put between the beast and himself was starting to collapse, to crumble. And It Knows. Ramsay had locked in the mirror this morning, before the girl had arrived in his study and had seen it, staring back at him. Watching him through his own blue eyes, glacier cold, devoid of warmth. Seeing everything he saw. It was waiting for Ramsay. Hoping that the bastard of Bolton would let his guard down and slip up. Knowing that sooner or later, that door would break.

Lately, it had been finding ways to show itself, like that moment where he had almost raped her in the hallway, not even having the decency to drag the girl back to her quarters, or his, not giving a fuck what she thought of him. Ways to change itself. Ways to change Ramsay permanently.

As the seconds turned to minutes and the minutes became an hour as he was content to just sit there on the step, the monster began to look more like him than anything else. And it was in that moment that Ramsay realized that without Sansa as his bride, without a legitimate heir, that he could lose everything…

The monstrous side of his personality had always gone unnoticed in the estate, except by his victims upon which he preyed, siccing his hounds on his choices, relishing in the hunt. He wasn't invisible, but he might as well have been for all the attention Father had paid him over the years growing up. The women were easier to pick off, tender and succulent in their fear, with their supple flesh. It was why he frequently let the women go in the woods. He did not care whether it be woman, man, or child that he hunted.

As long as he got what he wanted, in the end. Ramsay's frown deepened as he lifted his head and caught sight of his reflection in the mirror which had been hung on the wall just across the way, and he visibly flinched. He was hating all these mirrors and was of a mind to smash every single goddamned one in the estate. A few lines were laid upon his forehead, but they were dismissive as tricks of the dim light in the dank corridor of the estate.

His eyebrows were impossibly straight, his eyes an icy cold blue. Eyes that told of many secrets but held them locked in a strongbox so beautiful that you wouldn't dare to open it for fear of what you would find within.

The most striking features about his appearance were his thin, hollow, almost sunken in cheekbones that gave Ramsay almost a gaunt and haunting look to him, which only emphasized the glacier blue in his eyes. It highlighted the frown on his mouth and somehow made him seem even more authoritative than his title and aura already suggested, or his reputation.

If one ventured close enough, his blue eyes would hungrily envelop yours and pull you towards him until you well and truly caught in the man's trap.

It was nothing Ramsay did precisely, it just looked as if he had a secret you would enjoy hearing about. Ramsay's secret and he would never confess this to anybody (not that he had anybody to confess such a secret to) was that he currently felt conflicted about what to do with his precious little bride.

His Sansa. He was, after all, a killer, and the right thing to do would be that once she had sired him an heir or two, both strapping young boys like him, would be to dispose of Sansa before he grew bored of her, but, strangely enough, he found that he did not want to do such a thing. Strange. He usually had no interest in keeping his girls alive this long.

He let out a haggard sigh and wearily rubbed his temples. He knew he did not want to kill Sansa. "Yet," he growled darkly, still glowering at his reflection in the mirror across the way, his jaw clenched in anger. He was of half a mind to rise from his perch on the step, go over and smash the fucking glass in a million pieces. Ramsay knew all too well what the stories surrounding men like him were. He knew the stories all too well. How the legends of the servants said that Ramsay's heart died in its cavity when he was only five years old, that he putrefied and made a heavy black slime about his lungs as thick as underworld tar. That was how he became a killer and why.

That his emptiness was his madness, that he took human lives over and over again in the most brutal of ways, as if Ramsay thought he may possess the hearts and souls of his victims, yet it was never that way for him, even if he wanted it. And to be healed, some woman, somewhere, had to love him, to reform his heart as if it was the finest of clay, then set it beating with pure nature's essence.

So, until he found such a girl to forgive all that he had done, to break these universal scales and set him free, his killing sprees would continue. For a moment, Ramsay startled, and the look on his face might have been comical were he not royally and utterly ticked at how she was affecting him. For that brief second, Ramsay Bolton began to think, his thoughts drifting.

To thoughts of _her_. His Sansa, that girl with the hair the color of a winter fire. "Sansa…" he whispered, relishing how her name rolled off his tongue like poisoned honey, the beginnings of a sneer curling on his thin lips. The only one besides perhaps Myranda that did not seem to be afraid of him. But she would be, very soon, of this, Ramsay was certain.

He was going to make sure of this. It was, after all, the only semblance of reassurance that he would get to ensure that Sansa Stark remained his, and only his. No one else's. His. Ramsay loved the curves of Sansa's softness.

With her fiery temper and her ability to dare to speak her mind, she was, begrudgingly, perhaps the most interesting creature he had ever met, this witch who had dared to reject him. She had safe eyes, perhaps that's the best way that the lord could put it. Age could not touch Sansa Stark's beauty.

Sansa was something of an enigma to him, one that he could not quite put his finger on, and this infuriated Ramsay greatly. Men desired her, and that fact sent his blood boiling and the ache in his loins whelming and screaming for him to do something about it, to turn the hell around right now and break down the door of the room he'd locked his pretty little bride in, and take her right there on the floor, to hell with their wedding.

He'd waited long enough, and she had gotten a strange look in her eyes, right before she'd lost consciousness after he'd rescued her from her grisly demise of drowning to an icy death in the woods, one that he felt a pang of jealousy toward. Sansa Stark had had stardust in her eyes because she could think of naught else but her deformed wretch of a husband and Ramsay wanted it to be directed towards him. For him.

He wanted to be the one to take her for himself and himself alone, bed her, and she would bear his children and keep the Bolton lineage alive and strong. She would be his wife, forever, and how sweet it would be. The girl would never want for anything in life ever again with him by her side. Sansa Stark's little imperfections made the girl almost painfully perfect. There was a kind of shyness to her, hesitation in her body's movements, and a quiet submissive softness to her voice, which was also quite timid, like a soft breeze in summer. Her pale skin was creamy and white, shining like a beacon of white light, glowing whenever she moved, so fragile, you feared that she might break, and yet, so flawless, and smooth, her movements fluid and languid, almost angelic.

"So soft…" To Ramsay, his bride was almost perfect. Almost. There was still the matter of her outspoken personality, which he would quell, the minute her husband was dead. "You'll make a good wife to me soon, Sansa," he growled. Or no man will have you.”

"Sir?" came a guard's voice, sounding concerned. The new arrival's voice pulled him out of his steady stream of thoughts about the young bell ringer’s wife, and the spell the witch had momentarily cast upon Ramsay lifted.

Gritting his teeth in anger, he was momentarily furious that this bastard had interrupted his thoughts of the Stark girl, and how his desire to marry her was reaching his limit, how he wasn't sure if he would be able to hold off for longer. But first, there was the matter of his accursed wretched little problem that was the fucking Imp. He would go to him and throw the monster off the balcony’s ledge, and watch as his brains splattered the pavement, wherein he would think feed whatever was leftover of the dwarf to his hounds. And he would make Sansa _and_ Reek watch.

Ramsay swiveled his head and opened his mouth to bark some insult at the guard, when he caught snippets of a different pair of guards' conversation, both men resting against a stone pillar, their arms folded across their chests, one leg crossed over the other as they conversed to each other in low murmuring tones. Not the position a guardsman ought to be adapting, Ramsay thought darkly, and the guard standing directly behind Ramsay, too afraid to meet his gaze, opened his mouth to speak but clamped it shut when Ramsay lifted a finger to his lips, signaling the other man to shut up if he valued keeping his tongue.

Ramsay slowly rose from his spot on the stairwell and stepped back in the shadows to avoid being seen, his black jerkin, and doublet blending into the darkness. The perfect cover to observe and listen without being detected. His attention was now solely fixated on the two bastards in front of him as they talked, thinking themselves to be alone, save for their third companion.

"I have to admit," the taller of the two, and the more handsome of the lot was saying, "the Stark girl is really quite pretty. She's got a cute little nose, and though she would look much prettier if she smiled, she's easily the most beautiful woman in all of Westeros. I swear it."

"Is that so?" the shorter one asked, sounding bored and thoroughly disinterested. Ramsay felt a muscle in both his jaw and behind his right eyelid twitch involuntarily and he felt his hands ball into fists at his sides. He moved to stand up, and he was rather dismayed when the guards did not notice his looming shadow behind them. He waited to see if they would notice, and when they didn't, he grew even angrier. The guards continued speak, oblivious to Ramsay's presence behind them.

"Just you watch, Wes, I'm going to court her. You'll see."

"Really, Laurent?" His friend did not sound at all convinced.

The taller guard nodded. "I'm going to steal a kiss. It's going to be easy. I'll corner her one of these days, and maybe even sneak into her cloister room one night while she's asleep—"

Ramsay had heard enough. Fires of fury and hatred were smoldering in the dark narrowed eyes as he weighed the pros and cons of the various and creative means available to him for exacting revenge.

Burning rage hissed through his body like deathly poison, screeching a demanded release in the form of unwanted violence. It was like a volcano erupting; fury sweeping off him like ferocious waves. The wrath consumed like, engulfing his moralities, and destroying the boundaries of loyalty.

" **HOW DARE YOU**!" he yelled.

Both guards whirled around at the exact same time, and their faces drained of color. Ramsay would have laughed at the comical expressions on their faces were he not feeling an emotion that felt like it was burning his insides. It took him a moment to realize it was rage.

"Wh—what?" the guard who had spoken spluttered, but didn't have a chance to speak, as Ramsay grabbed the guard by the sleeve of his tunic and slammed against the pillar. Only one of them would get to walk away from Ramsay's temper—or perhaps neither. Ramsay didn't give a goddamn if it was proper edict or not. He could not—would not—allow these fools to speak of Sansa Stark in what he believed were unspeakable terms.

"I have a message for you," he hissed as a low warning, relishing the fear in the younger guard's eyes. "From…Sansa…"

A bald-faced lie, but if Ramsay wanted to see her again, he thought some deception was justified here. The guard's voice came back at him. The guard's voice, though fearful, was also quite tight with rage. "Wh—what?"

"It's complicated, Laurent. It is Laurent, isn't it?" added Ramsay nonchalantly as he gave the guard a quick once-over. "I recognize you. You're Captain Bonheur's cousin, aren't you? I'm sure he would be delighted to hear how you treat women. Maybe I'll make a point to tell him."

Ramsay knew as he spoke the words, they had hit their mark. He had him now. Ramsay could feel the heat of temper rising within Laurent. He wanted the supposed 'message' from Sansa Stark, but his urge to either fight or flight was rising. In that moment of self-conflict,

Ramsay's gaze drifted lazily towards the knife clutched firmly in Laurent's grasp and swiftly plucked it from his fingers and handed it off to the guard that stood behind him. His advantage was now lost.

Ramsay had taken down more and better in fair fights and Laurent knew it. Now he had a new emotion in his green eyes—fear. He pointed a shaking finger in Ramsay's face.

"You can't do this!" the guard protested.

"I can, I am!" Ramsay shouted; all composure momentarily was forgotten. "You cretinous little fucking worm," snarled Ramsay through clenched teeth, feeling what little color was left in his face drain as he glowered at the guard. "You do not deserve to speak her name, let alone even think of her in such terms."

Here, he leaned in closer, so the tip of his nose was practically touching the guard's, who cringed at the look of rage in the lord's eyes.

"Here is what I suggest you do, and I really suggest you follow my advice because if you don't, it won't bode well for you, my friend," he growled. "Quit this position. Right now, because if I ever find you anywhere near my bride again, I'll send my hounds after you, let them feast on your flesh, and then I'll slit your throat and feed whatever bits of you I don't decide to cut off one by one to my hounds. You are…quite grateful for this evening, for I am feeling…rather generous and am allowing you this one chance. Stay away from Sansa Stark if you value your own life," he growled. " **GO**!"

Satisfied at the horrified expression on the guard's face, he let out a warning growl from the back of his throat and effectively released the guard. Ramsay watched as the guards scrambled to their feet and wasted no time in making a beeline right for the castle’s front doors.

Ramsay bared his teeth, stifling a low growl, just as a low, lazy clap reached his eardrums. "Fuck," he cursed under his breath and whirled around. Ramsay swallowed, hoping his face remained set to 'casual indifference.’. He turned towards the guard and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, as though fighting off a splitting headache. "Yes, what is it?"

The guard swallowed nervously and took several paces backward cautiously, "Ah, well," he began hesitantly. "F—forgive me, milord, b—but…it's the girl."

Ramsay froze, feeling his blood turn to ice and his teeth clenching in anger.

"What about her?" he growled, feeling his temper swell even more.

The guard cast his gaze downward, refusing to meet either of his lord's eyes. "She…ah, well, f—forgive me, milords, b-but we cannot find the girl. She…she's nowhere in in the estate, milord. She's… gone," the guard finished weakly, clenching his eyes shut and preparing for the inevitable outburst that he knew would send him over the edge. "She's escaped. I—I don't know how…" The guard flinched and kept his eyes shut as Ramsay's holler reverberated in his ears like a clap of thunder, such was his rage. It was a roar of pure anger.

" **WHAT**?" roared Ramsay, letting out a guttural growl that everyone was certain they heard it for miles. Every breath felt like his last, every breath made him ache for it to be the last. His cries of rage went unregarded, contained by the walls of his body. His screams echoed in his head filling the silence with burning flames of self-loathing. Every violated phrase was like fire on oil, his hands began to clench, and his jaw rooted. He exploded with anger at last. "What do you mean, 'she's gone?' Who was on duty today? Who in fuck’s name let her escape? You?" he growled, unaware of another guard, Aleyn, he thought his name was, coming over and laying a firm hand on his shoulder.

"We will find her, Lord Ramsay," came a third guard’s calculating tone, devoid of emotion.

Angrily, Ramsay violently shirked away from his lord father's touch as Lord Roose entered the room and laid a hand upon his son's shoulder, his cold gaze fixated upon the guards. " **ANSWER ME! WAS IT YOU**?" he roared, beside himself.

"Y—yes, milord, b—but…" The guard let out a horrible yell of anguish as Ramsay threw his body weight behind the fist that edged closer to his face, the guard's pitiful attempt to protect himself from Ramsay's wrath, it hit his jaw with such force blood pooled into his mouth.

Pain erupted from the point of impact. With his own two hands, Ramsay grasped his head in his hands and brought his kneecap up to his nose, there was a blunt crack and Ramsay released the oaf's dark-haired head.

Crimson leaked from both his nostrils and his nose was twisted right. He drew his fist back again and it plowed into his stomach. His guts smashed together, blood vessels bursting. Ramsay repaid this little defensive act by punching his jaw, his fist collided with all his body weight. Ramsay continued this battering until he fell to the floor.

The guard's chest gently rose and sank with each shallow breath he drew in, choking and gurgling on a pool of blood that had gathered in his mouth. Panting heavily, he withdrew his knife from the sheath he wore around his waist, twisting it in the dim light of the corridor as if it could slice up the rays of the sun itself, his seething expression exaggerated by the dark shadows around his eyes. Though rust had set in on the handle and blade it was strong, jagged.

Sansa had dared to try to defy and reject him for the last time. Ramsay could see his bride already in a pool of blood and his face split into a grin that arced in a sickly way, never making it to his almost sunken in and haunted icy-blue eyes.

"Gentlemen," he growled, sheathing his dagger, and straightening his black leather jerkin, running his blood-stained fingers through his mop of dark hair. The other guards who had been altered to the man's screams remained mute, eyes downcast at Lord Ramsay boots, too afraid to move. He kicked aside the fallen guard's limp form with the tip of his black boot and spat at the man's face. "Feed this traitorous little worm to my hounds. Mustn't waste the good meat. They'll need a little snack for what comes next. This evening," Ramsay grinned, clasping his hands behind his back, "has just gotten most interesting. It's my wedding night to the girl and it would seem my precious little prize has decided to play a game of hide and seek. Tell Reek to ready my horse and supplies. She wants to hide, I'll seek her. Gentlemen…let us hunt my bride.”


	34. Brienne

**Brienne**

While not exactly how she would have chosen to keep her word to Lady Catelyn, Brienne of Tarth was grateful, at the very least, that she was able to keep her word to Sansa Stark. Podrick trailed close behind at her heels, his gaze nervously darting to and from, as though expecting one of the Bolton hounds or men to jump out from the thick brush and attack. Which was exactly what Brienne was counting on. The candle in the sill had been lit, and she had met Lady Stark with a man known only as Reek, and was a godawful assault on the senses, both in eyes and nose.

The boy was a wreck like the gods hadn't taken pity on whatever trials or hardships he'd suffered and was in dire need of a hot long bath.

The one called Reek had led Sansa through the crypts, though not without much convincing on Sansa's part for the damaged man to help her. He had at last relented and was hesitant to flee with them, but Sansa had practically begged for him to come, claiming she needed him.

The hounds of Lord Ramsay's weren't far behind, as the sky plunged into ominous darkness, awakening predatory creatures out of their lairs. Brienne jumped as a distant bloodcurdling howl made the hairs on the backs of her neck stand on end and she mumbled a choice curse under her breath, cursing herself to the seven hells for showing fear.

Brienne watched anxiously as the forest surrounding the four of them, their fourth companion in the party an archer of Bolton's, a young man seemingly around Sansa's age who called himself Ser Aleyn and claimed to be unmatched with a bow and arrow. Brienne supposed she'd find out soon enough. The introductions had been tense between them.

Brienne could tell just by one look in the bowman's eyes that the younger man did not fully trust Brienne, but then again, it worked both ways. Something about the young man felt rather off, disconnecting.

Though what exactly it was, Brienne couldn't put her finger on it.

Sansa had assured Brienne and Podrick, and to a lesser extent, Reek, that they could trust Ser Aleyn, that the man considered himself a friend, though it did not escape Brienne's attention the venomous glowers he shot the boy who called himself Reek and lived up to that nickname.

Brienne would have been tempted to ask for the history between those two and why there was no love lost among them, but now wasn't the time. _Get Lady Sansa to safety_ , her conscience scolded her. _And fast_.

She had flinched as the knight's gaze traveled upwards, resting on her face, during which Brienne had promptly looked away. The woman knew all too well what she was. Just shy over six feet, Brienne was tall, muscular, rather flat-chested, and ungainly. Her straw-colored hair was shoulder length and quite brittle, her mouth wide and lips pink and thin.

Her nose looked as though it had been broken more than once (which it had.) The only redeeming feature of Brienne of Tarth was her blue eyes. Her eyes were a fire in water if you can imagine such a thing. They were a passion in ice. So even on their first meeting Sansa knew that if Brienne of Tarth kept her oath to her, as she had tried to do for her mother, she'd be a friend for life, never dominating nor submitting, but a companion who walks freely alongside.

And that she was and more. She was, after all, helping Sansa flee Winterfell without asking an endless bout of questions as to the reasons why which she felt did not warrant or need an explanation. The fact that Ramsay was a monster should have been good enough for her. One of the guards loyal to Lady Sansa, an archer named Aleyn, trailed close behind, looking upset the closer the hounds got as they trudged through the wood. The path at their feet faded as it led into the darkness of the woods yet follow it, they all had to for the sake of Sansa Stark. Somewhere in there was a way out if they could just make it to the other side. Tree branches stretched out in front of the escape party, forming a cavern of distorted limbs that seemed to try to reach out and grasp at Brienne's flesh, what little of it wasn't protected by her armor.

A vile pain spread throughout Brienne's chest like a deadly infection and her lungs beseeched her to stop walking, as did her legs. Her knees felt like mush after running constantly for hours and now she gulped selfish breaths of air. Helpless, she encouraged the group to keep walking, her feet dragging noisily on the carpet of lifeless leaves and snow beneath their boots. Each step forward felt like it triggered a rush of pain in Brienne of Tarth's chest.

In spite of her exhausted and somewhat feeble condition, though she would never dare admit it aloud, her slightly swollen lips curled into a smile as the realization that she had helped Lady Catelyn's eldest daughter to escape finally struck her. Brienne felt smug at her little victory. She, no _they_ had really made it. Sansa Stark was free from the filthy clutches of the wretched Bolton family. She still had forgotten how some of Roose's men had dressed in that hideous pink dress and forced her into the bear pit with a wooden sword. They would make for the road and perhaps escape in a boat.

She hoped that Lady Sansa Stark would find for herself a new home. A home that would thrive, breathing without restrictions. She hoped.

However, she knew more than anything, what resided in Sansa Stark's heart was the fear of everything being forcefully taken away from her still resided deep within, festering like an old wound left to rot there.

The brutal methods of the Bolton men toyed with the lives of innocent people for the sake of ruling a land that was not theirs by right.

Lords Roose and Ramsay wanted to conquer the entire North, and any prisoner that resisted or attempted to escape were tortured, some even killed, and Brienne felt a chill of fear travel down her spine at that pleasant thought. She momentarily wondered what Lord Ramsay would do to Sansa if the men and that pack of hounds were to catch up to them.

Ramsay was a man blinded by his lust for power, ruthless and merciless. Sansa Stark had been lucky to escape in the crypts with Reek. Brienne felt her blonde thin brows furrow into a frown as her sword hand constantly hovered over the hilt of Oathkeeper as she scoured the woods. No sign of Lord Bolton's scouts that she could see or detect, but that did not mean that they were not there. Stepping into the woods robbed you of one sense and heightened all others. It was disorienting to be almost blinded but given the ears and eyes of a wolf. Even the soft susurration of the branches felt heavy to Brienne of Tarth's sharp eyes.

Their senses of smell were heightened, the loam in the earth and the decomposing leaves made the atmosphere close and thick, suffocating.

The blackness of the forest ahead of the group nurtured an eerie sense of claustrophobia inside you, even though the woodlands stretched unbroken for miles. The narrow path, which was made uneven by the knotted roots that crossed it, branched out at random intervals. There was no map for the group to follow, but even if there had been, the perpetual dark would have prevented Brienne and the company from using it. Only the songs of the elders, it was rumored, would take you through. That's why the children of Winterfell learned to sing them every night before bed and then again in the morrow after breaking their fast. They were the only way to navigate, and Brienne watched, almost mesmerized as Lady Stark hummed a low but lovely tune under her breath, seemingly taking the lead in guiding them all out of the forest.

"Hurry," whispered Brienne urgently, her gloved hand coming up to grip onto Oathkeeper's hilt tightly. "We cannot delay, Lady Sansa."

Sansa Stark had been staring up at a tree, seemingly lost in thought, and was jolted out of her thoughts as she felt the stronger woman's hand on the small of her back, nudging her towards the front of the dirt path.

Lady Stark swallowed nervously and gave the tiniest of nods, signaling to Brienne that she understood. "Thank you, Lady Brienne."

Brienne blushed, feeling the heat speckle along her cheeks. "I am no lady, milady," she murmured, airily brushing away Lady Catelyn's daughter's comment with a curt wave of her hand. "I made a promise."

"And you are keeping that promise," Sansa answered steadily as they walked at a hurried pace, glancing sideways, and having to crane her neck upwards in order to meet Brienne of Tarth's blue eyes with her own. "My mother would be— _is_ —quite proud of you, Brienne of Tarth. If we should survive this, I should see you knighted for your efforts, yes?"

Brienne swallowed back the lump forming in her throat, unable to find the words of gratitude she so desperately wished she could say.

"I…thank you, milady, but let us concentrate first on getting you to safety," was all she managed to say when she had regained control of her voice. "We cannot delay, and the longer we linger here, we risk being discovered. _Go_ ," Brienne urged, taking even longer strides than before.

Sansa nodded, wrapping the hood of her brown linen traveling robe over her face to conceal her features, not that it would do her much good.

For whom else would be wandering about these woods in the middle of winter in the North? Probably only fugitives up to no good, that's who. At _that_ pleasant thought, Sansa furrowed her brows into a frown, and this gesture did not go unnoticed by Brienne. "Hurry, milady."

Sansa Stark gave a curt nod and quickened her pace, having to jog slightly to catch up to Brienne, with Pod and Reek and Ser Aleyn bringing up the rear. Brienne found herself wondering what on earth would possess a man like Ramsay Bolton to allow his name to be slandered with such a horrible reputation, and she wondered if the rumors were as bad as she and Podrick had heard in the taverns.

How the monster himself was so bloody violent, he would snap your neck if you so much as looked at him in a manner that displeased him, and that was only after he had flayed the skin and meat from your bones.

But Lady Stark, Brienne could sense, knew the truth of him, for she was, after all, still betrothed and due to be married to the bastard.

Sansa had not divulged much, but Brienne knew that she had looked into the monster's eyes, and more, besides. The blonde-haired warrior let out a haggard sigh and pondered her options. She knew they were in danger as long as they lingered here out in the open woods with nowhere to go, no plan in mind. If they were to go back the way they came and circle back around, Bolton's men and the dogs would find her.

But if they stayed here, they were as good as dead, so Brienne knew they only had two options. Up or down. Downward to the river and hope, they could find a boat, and if that didn't work, they'd swim across.

Wading knee-deep in frigid cold water and possibly catching their death of a chill was not a prospect that appealed to either Sansa or Brienne and made both women scrunch their noses in disgust.

Up, however, towards the hills, or even up in the trees if it came to that, was technically faster than down. Sansa let out a tiny squeak as another baying howl rent the otherwise silent woodland air. They were close.

"I—I do not think I can continue," Sansa Stark breathed, her blue eyes wide and round with shock, pivoting on her heel and moving as if to turn away. "What I have asked of you all is an entirely selfish thought."

Brienne stared, hardly daring to believe what she was hearing. She bit the inside of her cheek and felt her fingers begin to twitch, itching to draw her sword. She watched as the Stark girl fidgeted with the gold wedding band she wore on her left hand and bit her bottom lip in a pout.

Whatever was weighing on Lady Stark's mind was troubling her greatly. Her mind pitted against itself, seemingly weighing the pros and cons. At last, though it seemed to take her ages, Sansa found her voice.

"I cannot remain out here." Though her voice shook, it was laced with a surge of courage and determination that caused Brienne's heart to give a painful lurch. How very much like her mother Sansa Stark sounded in this moment. "I have endangered each and every one of you by asking this of you, and for me to risk your lives and innocent blood spilled on my behalf, simply because I wish to escape a marriage I do not want, is completely and utterly selfish of me. I cannot— _will not_ —live with your blood on my hands. I have to go back, Brienne, Aleyn," she whispered.

Sansa Stark bit her bottom lip and painfully wrung her hands together in agitation, the sharpness of her nails hard enough to pierce the skin.

Brienne opened her mouth and was about to comment on how ridiculous she was being, and ask Lady Stark if she was touched in the head, when the filthy rat who looked like he'd spawned out of the slums spoke up, sounding indignant and highly offended by Lady Stark's words.

"Are you _mad_ , milady? Are you perhaps _short_ of a _marble_?" he spluttered his first whole sentence ever since arriving at the edge of the crypt's entrances with Lady Sansa.

But Lady Stark shook her head no. "No, Theon," she whispered softly. "Perhaps for the first time in my life, I am thinking quite straight. This is something I must do on my own. Let me deal with whatever punishment Ramsay seeks to enact, for this was my idea and mine alone. Not yours."

Ser Aleyn was the first to break the stunned silence, taking a step forward as though his body had come alive after a wash of cold. "What then would you have us do, milady? If your lord husband to be catches us out here with you, he should hang us all for treason and not think twice."

"I know that," Sansa nodded grimly, her lips pursed into a thin line. She turned her head away sharply for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. "I will go back alone," she announced, her voice faltering only slightly as her bravery and resolve seemed to teeter as she swayed.

No doubt the stress and taxation of what she was considering were catching up to her, and she would have fallen had the one called Reek not shot out a strong arm to catch her. Brienne half expected the Lady of Winterfell to recoil her nose in disgust at being manhandled by someone who smelled as though they'd not bathed in an entire year, but she did not. "Th—thank you, Theon," she whispered, sounding relieved.

"Well?" Pod pressed, finally breaking his silence, heaving as he tried to catch his breath, one hand clasped to his side. "What should we do, milady?"

"You will go on without me. I shall tell my betrothed that I was captured by a band of brigades and could not see their faces, for they had covered my head with a cloth," she announced, though it sounded to Brienne like her voice lacked the conviction of the argument she really wanted to make. "It is the best possible explanation I can think of."

A slight sheen of sweat had begun to form on her brow, and there was no mistaking the skittish behavior Lady Sansa was starting to exhibit. Brienne of Tarth liked to think she knew her well. She knew that Sansa was beginning to regret coming here.

Through the eerie silence and the darkness came the glow of two yellow eyes, like sallow lamplight eight feet off the ground. They moved with a slight sway as if the unseen body prowled like a big cat or a huge, hulking dog. The entire party froze, rooted to their spots, unable to move at all.

The eyes, however, did not, in fact, freeze. Instead, they moved, following Brienne of Tarth's and Lady Sansa's movements with slow acceleration as the pair of eyes crept closer.

"Brienne…" whisper-hissed Sansa through clenched teeth, her eyes wildly darting around the woods, looking for a way out, or perhaps an oversized fallen tree limb that they could use as a weapon, a means of self-defense.

Brienne opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out was a strangled attempt at speech. The group watched as the gentle snapping of twigs and crunch of leaves suggested perhaps that a deer or rabbit was moving in the black shadows of the forest edge near the cemetery.

Yet the beast was neither. Oh, it was a dog all right, but nothing like they had ever seen. It was three hundred and forty pounds of dense muscle, claws, and fangs. This behemoth had acquired the ability to move with more stealth over the past half-century, it found that with this technique the necessity for chasing was reduced.

Once in position, the only noises coming from this huge, hulking beast were the excessive panting brought on by the anticipation of fresh meat, its first real meal in about five years, and the steady drip of the gelatinous saliva onto the mud. As the scent of the humans wafted to his oversized nostrils, he made the noise of a wounded dog, whimpering, pitiful. Sansa's heart lurched, and she greatly fought the urge to step forward and try to comfort the beast.

One glance over at Ser Aleyn was more than enough. He gave a curt shake of his head no, an arm held out in front of Lady Sansa, as though he thought that would be enough to ward off the creature's attack. His hand had stretched around to his back, wherein he wore his quiver with his bow and arrows, though Sansa and Brienne knew just as well as he did, the slightest twitch, any mad dash made to reach for his weapon, and this monstrous beast would become provoked and would attack.

The Beast of Ramsay's made a noise that elicited a startled jump from both Sansa and Brienne, not having anticipated the noise.

A soft yelp. A whimper. These types of noises drew the other four-legged creatures of the Alpha's pack closer every single time, almost without fail. Then, the beast would launch forward with such rapid speed, the snatched victims often had no time to cry out or call for help, they just…vanished.

If their friends were foolish enough to search for the poor sods, then so much the better. It would become a feast for these hell hounds of Ramsay's, these canines, its yellow eyes glinting dangerously in the moonlight. The monster preferred to toy with its food rather than killing it fast. The first strike was with a poisoned claw to slow the reaction time of his meal, after that, it was playtime.

The 'meal' would be allowed the chance to run, to feel the pounding of their own heart just a few more times, and then the dogs would sink their teeth into their necks—just deep enough to let them bleed out slow before feasting. The creature drew back its head and howled.

That was more than enough.

"Lady Stark, run!" Ser Aleyn urged, violently shoving Sansa Stark backward, towards the direction of the clearing. "Make for the other side of the godswoods, maybe we can lose it!" he shouted, taking Sansa's hand, and pulling her forward into a run.

Her breathing came in small spurts, hot and nervous, as the pair bolted for the forest again, the baying howls of the pack of Ramsay's vicious hell hounds, all dozens of them, right behind them. At her sides, pale fingers curled into sweaty fists, swinging forward as if it would make her run faster.

"I…I think they found us, Ser Aleyn!" she panted, gasping for breath.

"Who _cares_?" he retorted, sounding almost angry with Sansa, shoving her forward rather violently, a move which normally would have gotten her blood boiling, but Sansa knew it was meant as a gesture of protectiveness, making sure she had a good chance to get away before thinking of saving himself. "Just run!"

Sansa nodded her agreement, throwing herself forward with even greater abandon.

Her heart and lungs were pumping, but the air didn't seem to be enough as she sprinted forward, panic trembling in her exhausted limbs. Her blue eyes widened, breathing ragged, and harsh. Her hands trembled at her sides and she jammed her fist into her mouth to stifle her scream of fear. She'd heard the creature coming, the pounding susurration of its footsteps, like a threatening whisper almost. It was incredible to hear how light it moved.

_Maybe it really is a monster_ , she thought wildly. It didn't seem to come from any direction, just a sound that encapsulated her inside her cocoon of despair and hopelessness as they hid behind the trunk of a large oak tree. They probably weren't going to make it out of this alive.

Sansa's legs were frozen into place, so following Reek and Aleyn's lead as best she could, she crouched into a crawl and dragged herself towards the edge of the woods, gasping. Sansa clawed at the forest ground with bitten nails, and her jaw dropped open in a silent scream of horror as her eyes rested on the beast's massive black paw and claws, standing in front of her.

The thing lunged at her, dark shape of matted fur that smelled of wet dog and blood latching onto her back. She struck the ground, hard, and lay there, convulsing and twitching. Ser Aleyn's screams were ringing in her eardrums, as well as the sound of a crossbow being fired, the arrow very narrowly missing the tip of her earlobe as it whizzed past her ear. From the darkness, came the sound of heavy limbs being dragged across the forest floor. Whatever it was, it was massive. She blearily lifted her head and tried to focus her gaze a few feet in front of herself. "Brienne? Ser Aleyn? Theon…" she whimpered.

Every once in a while would come a cracking noise like bone on wood, or at least, that's what Sansa's overactive imagination perceived it to be—a thick skull crashing into a trunk. She prayed to the gods or whoever was up there that it wasn't any of her friends'. This beast was neither lithe nor graceful.

Sansa let out a scream as the creature towered over her limp form on the ground and she winced, turning her chin sharply as a drop of the dog's saliva fell onto her cheek. She clenched her eyes shut, letting out a whimper of fear. A string of curses unraveled from her tongue, like yarn unfurling, as the monstrous dog advanced. Its fur was matted and tangled, the creature huge and grotesque with mattered fur and huge twisting paws. The contorted figure seemed to eclipse the moon itself with how big it was. Roughly the size of a small pony, this one towering over her, ready to eat her bones.

"Nice dog, you're a good boy," whimpered Sansa as it let out a low growl. "Just...calm down, a-and please don't eat us. We don't taste very good..." This dog was anything _but_ a good boy, as it hunched on its shoulders, shackles raised, yellow teeth bared and snarling, poising to attack Sansa. Every step it took rattled Sansa's bones and struck her heart.

She tried to dodge a swing from its massive paws, but it struck her side and she tumbled into the dirt. She could hear nothing. All was silenced. Ser Aleyn, her own screams, and Theon's screams, the low guttural growls of the leader of the hounds and its pack members.

All Sansa could do was feel. Feel the cold ground pressed against her form, the heat from the pain, and the rhythm of the drum of her heartbeat that would soon signal her end. She looked upwards, trying to look at Brienne or Podrick, but her heart lurched to the pit of her stomach as the towering form of Ramsay Bolton loomed over Sansa, a victorious smile on his face.

"Found you," was all he answered, though the sickening smile suggested the twisted bastard was enjoying every second of this, it did not extend upwards to his eyes. His cobalt blue eyes flashed dangerously, darkening to a cerulean hue in color. He was livid.

Sansa closed her eyes and prepared to feel a searing pain, her very last. Sansa barely stifled a surprised gasp of pain as she felt something hard come down on the back of her skull, followed by an immense warmth, and something wet and sticky felt like it trickled down her neck. She was barely aware of being lifted in a pair of strong arms, Ramsay's, as her heartbeats, pounded loudly against her chest, echoing in her eardrums, alongside her fading, pitiful pleas for help, for the gods to have mercy.

If Ramsay heard her or paid attention to his future wife's pleas, he chose to ignore it as the feeling in Sansa Stark's body drained away until all was black, and her last thought was that she hoped Brienne, Pod, and Theon had all found a place to hide and made it to safety. She was going to have to deal with Ramsay on her own.

She had run, and he had caught her, just like hide and seek, and now…

There was nowhere to run…


	35. Tyrion

** Tyrion **

A salmon pink glow stretched across the horizon, slicing between the intermingling colors of dark blue and black sky. The shouts of the various Bolton soldiers rent through the air, and Tyrion watched from the terrace of Winterfell’s uppermost balcony as the gates of the castle spread open and the dots of the torch fires spreading out, though one, in particular, caught his eye.

Ramsay Bolton, that Bastard, that Skinflayer, that demon disguised as an angel, stood proud and noble atop a black stallion, a monstrous beast. Tyrion could have sworn, he could have sworn that yes, the bastard of Roose Bolton squinted in the dim light of the blood-red dawn and looked up and met the little lord’s gaze. Tyrion swallowed nervously, hoping that Podrick and Brienne had managed to find Sansa and get her somewhere safe, away from Winterfell.

His mind felt like it was reeling as it reflected over his wife’s plan, wanting to fake a pregnancy to avoid being married off to Ramsay on this very night.

While Sansa’s plan was erratic and incredibly dangerous, even more so if it came to light that it was nothing more than a ruse, there was a small part of him that could not help but to wonder if there was merit in her plan, after all…

Tyrion swallowed nervously past the growing lump in his throat as Ramsay Bolton finally averted his gaze, kicked the spurs of his black leather boots into the beast’s sides, the horse whinnying in frustration at having to be out in such frigid fucking temperatures, his throat hollowed and constricted, feeling like it was cutting off his passageways, and he heard himself emanate a tense exhale as Ramsay led his men deep into the heart of the godswoods to search for Sansa.

A pang of guilt pricked at his heart as he thought of his wife, and Tyrion bit the wall of his cheek and rummaged in the pocket of his jerkin, wherein he had slipped the letter that she had written him. He hadn’t bothered to open it at the time, knowing that he would see Sansa soon enough, but given their situation, there was no time like the present. Resisting the urge to take her new handmaiden Phoebe and venture into the woods himself to search for Sansa and follow her, he pulled out the letter, broke the wax seal with his thumb, unfolded the aged piece of parchment paper and began to read his wife’s letter.

_My lion,_ _I know there's no way I can convince you that I'm not lying, but maybe if you read this, this letter to you will be enough to assert my true feelings on our marriage and to convince that, in my own way, I do love you, though I see it every day in your eyes that you doubt my feelings towards you, when you’ve no reason to, Tyrion. All I wanted was to be loved, was that so much to ask for? I guess it is. Having such a dream is not meant for someone the likes of me, however, I can see that now, though admittedly, my life has improved since I married you. I can tell that you love me, and that’s all I could ask for, really._

_Fate is not kind, just as Death is the lover that no one ever wants to deal with. In the end, Death comes for us all with outstretched open arms, waiting to take us up into his arms into his cold embrace, and spirit us away to that place where we go when our bodies have severed the earthly coil to this world._

_For me, the angel of Death is Bolton._

_I cannot stay here, without you by my side, so do not ask me to do that of you. I had agreed to this match initially to keep you safe, but now I see that was foolish and I should never have agreed to Lord Tywin and Baelish’s proposal._

_For you see, I don't think I belong here in Winterfell, married to that bastard of Roose Bolton, and the fact if I allow Ramsay to lay so much as a hand on me, I would be betraying everything that I’ve ever believed in, I cannot allow that. I need to leave you, and I think I know the way to do it._

_May the gods forgive me for what I must do. I know I will be likely captured and brought back, maybe even dead by the time you read this, but…I cannot continue like this. I don't know what I will face when I meet death when I give myself over to Ramsay by the end of tonight, and this should scare me, but… It doesn't. Many would ask if I suffer from depression if I said this out loud, but I'm quite happy. But it's hard to find people who get what I mean. Death is a painful truth, is what some say. I think Death is a foggy road, and we must get through that fog called life to finally see the clearing. It's yet another path to walk, and who is to say it will be our last? Life may be the beginning, but who is to say Death is our last path?_

_What if Death is the middle of the story, and you must read through that to get to a place beyond death? Is there a place beyond death? But if we go onto the next path after death, will it be our last path, or are we fated to keep walking? Death is a body or shadow that lurks in the dark, he crawls under little children's beds and he is always there. He is always there, following you and the closer he gets the sooner he will take you as his own._

_He is the ghost that people fear, and he is the tormentor of the many corpses claimed by death. You know when your time is nearing its end because you can feel the chill of his icy breath as it tickles the hairs on the back of your neck, just like I can feel it happening to me right now._

_If my time in this story is to be limited, Tyrion, then let me say how sorry I am. I never meant to hurt you. I am sorry if I hurt you. I did not mean to cause you any pain, but it is for your own good that I consider leaving the castle altogether, because then…Ramsay and Roose Bolton will not hurt you. It's me they want. For you see, as much as it pains me to admit this, Winterfell is no longer my home, not with these snakes in the night that currently occupies it. And no place is home if you are not by my side, husband. You told me once, though I did not believe you at the time, that I am too good for this world, and that I should get my own wings. To have wings, to be able to fly would be so wonderful, that I should escape this place and my grisly fate. One day, my love, someday. I'll get my own wings._

_And then I’ll be free… we’ll be free. Free of the laughter, the scorn. Free to love each other until the world ends. When I come back to you, let’s leave._

_Get on a boat to Pentos or go live in Casterly Rock and never look back._

_Love,_

_Sansa._

The dread that crept down Tyrion’s vertebrae as he finished her letter was like an icy chill, numbing his brain. Oh, _God_. What had he _done_? Lady Sansa had given herself up…to save his life, so that he would be free.

This was _his_ fault. He never should have married her if he would have known this was to be her fate.

There were times where Tyrion felt like his world was slowly disappearing in front of him. Or maybe it was just he who was fading away. Those moments it didn’t matter anyway. Because his empty burning lungs and his heart hitting against his chest so hard, he thought it would break apart his rips and rip apart his skin were the only things he could think of. He _never_ should have let Sansa go with them, _alone_.

Tyrion had never intended to fall in love with Sansa when Tywin had announced their marriage, yet another forced union. Falling in love with her had been the easy part. It was still admitting to himself that it happened that was still hard for him to come to terms with.

Falling in love with his wife was like entering a house and finally realizing that he was home. Whenever Sansa smiles at him, he could feel invisible hands wrapping around him, making him feel safe, even now. This was what falling in love had been like for the pair of them.

For so long had he longed for it, and now that he had it, he did not think he could bear to lose it—lose the thing that made him feel complete. Tyrion let out a sigh and looked out into the grounds from his perch out on the balcony—easily the highest spot of the entire castle, save for the roof

He wanted her back so badly already, that it was a physical need, that it ached, sending swells of pain to his heart, where it felt like a dagger had been twisted deep into his chest. “You should not love me, Sansa,” he spoke to her softly, his voice sounding pained, though she was well away by now and Tyrion knew that his wife could not hear him.

Still, it did not stop him from speaking to her, like he was doing right now. “In fact, you shouldn’t be anywhere _near_ me, love,” he murmured, shrinking into his green tunic as much as he could for warmth, clutching himself as it was fairly cold.

Sooner rather than later, he was going to have to see if he could install a thicker pair of curtains at the base of their bedroom to prevent the cold bitter winds from wafting into their bedroom’s windows.

Tyrion furrowed his uneven brows into a frown as he thought of his wife escaping this place—without him, but if it meant that she’d be free of this wretched family of snakes, then it was a sacrifice he was willing to make. Just that thought was enough to set Tyrion’s blood aflame in his veins as he felt his temper swell as a fit of insurmountable anger threatened to consume him. A cold chill traveled down his spine and he scowled, feeling his uneven brows knit together in confusion. Oh, why had he not insisted that he accompany her, his monstrous form or not?

Tyrion felt his jaw lock and tighten at what he had allowed, and he ground his teeth in anger, his blue eyes flashing indignantly as they stayed locked upon the edge of the godswoods, perhaps foolishly hoping that he could spot any sign of his wife, that she had not wanted to remain in a strange place that was foreign to her without him right by her side.

He let out an anguished sigh and ran his gloved fingers through his hair, wondering if Sansa’s handmaiden, Phoebe, would trim it for him again.

Even after a few months of marriage, Tyrion was amazed at the ability Sansa had to effectively render him tongue-tied, almost every time.

How her large liquid blue eyes held such intelligence and serenity that Tyrion felt like it was impossible not to be held prisoner by them.

Which would explain away his momentary lapse of inability to form a cohesive sentence around his wife and, why Tyrion had not insisted that he accompany his wife.

Sansa’s cheekbones weren’t especially high, and her nose was a little too long and wide to be perfect, but there was an undeniable symmetry to Sansa Stark’s delicate, elfin-like features, like that of a pretty red rose, waiting to bloom. Perhaps that was what had captivated Tyrion so about his wife, when he had first met her all those years ago, even when she was a young girl, with fanciful, albeit rather stupid, dreams.

Sometimes, like right now, Tyrion found himself wondering why Sansa had married him. Being different wasn’t a bad thing for the black sheep of the Lannister family, no. It was the ridicule that came along with not following the social conduct. Even after Tywin’s death, Tyrion was still reviled. There was no justice for the creative, no safe haven for the weak. There was only hate and brutality from the ones looked up upon.

Tyrion could no join in with the crowd and he never would, claiming that the company of his wife, and hopefully, if Sansa’s plan worked, if she really did want to have a baby with him, and she wasn’t lying, their child in another nine or months, was more than enough for him, really.

His wife’s smooth dry skin was dotted with a light smattering of freckles about her cute nose, and her delicate eyebrows curved in swooping arcs over those bewitching blue eyes and her small button nose complemented her wide forehead and sharp angular chin. These features, in addition to her infectious beautiful smile and unfailingly kind and sweet personality had the ability to turn heads, including his, but it was her eyes that were the true prize, what held Tyrion so captivated, even to this day a year later.

What secrets would he uncover, as he looked into her eyes? He wished that she were home with him right now, by God…

Her blue eyes were like the stars in the night sky, the way they drew unsuspecting men in like she had unknowingly done to Jehan Frollo to explore the swirling depths of emotions held within Sansa’s eyes.

At one glance, Sansa’s eyes merely shone, but if you were fortunate enough to dare to look closer, just as Tyrion had done earlier, Tyrion could see the sadness of heartbreak, the joy of love, and the hope of a better for themselves even here, in her old home, surrounded by a family of fucking pit vipers.

She had the fire of a spirit that her husband knew his wife would not give up. At least…not willingly. His mind was reeling at the thought of Sansa getting captured by Ramsay, which, if the lady knight and Podrick didn’t hurry up, then she most assuredly would be captured.

He would just have to find some way to make it quite plain and perfectly clear to any man with…less than desirable intentions towards _his_ wife that Sansa was no longer available and wore the ring on her left hand to prove it. And there was the little matter of she hoped to be with a child soon.

Just that thought alone was enough to send him into a panic attack. Tyrion swallowed hard past the lump forming in his throat and buried his head in his hands. He was…going to be a _father,_ one day, and hopefully sooner rather than later. But what if—what if the baby, an innocent, was born like _him_?

Tyrion knew the increased probability of their child being born with his pain-inducing features, and as their baby grew and aged when it became old enough to want to make friends of its own, the ridicule it would face. He did not think he could handle passing on his condition to an innocent child like this, but he could not— _would_ not—ask Sansa anything of her that would put her life at risk to ensure it didn’t happen.

His mind felt as if the stone were coursing through his veins instead of blood. Tyrion fingered a broken shard of glass that he’d picked up near his carving table earlier, and caught sight of his twisted reflection.

“What you saw in me, love, to want to marry me, I’ll never know,” he whispered, cringing at his reflection in the mirror. He was half of a mind to follow the path Sansa had taken into the woods in the hopes of meeting up with Brienne and Podrick, and he caught sight again of his reflection in the shard of glass he held in his palm, and he flinched, caught off guard at the creature he saw staring back at him. The shadow of the dormant demon that lay within his eyes.

He felt his stomach lurch and he thought he might vomit. There was the smallest fraction of Tyrion’s mind that knew what he was and hated it. Disgust. Yes, that’s what he felt for himself. Total disgust, at who he really was, at the pain and suffering he had inflicted upon his wife.

Tyrion felt his shoulders slump downward and his blue eyes cast downward in a mournful gaze, the shadow of his almost-handsome face held a forlorn, worn expression, and he drew back his arm as far as he could and hefted the shard of glass over his shoulder, watching it disappear. His mouth was set in a semi-pout as he remained alone in his cold, desolate bell tower, fighting against his urge to follow Sansa.

His wife had the kindest pair of brilliant blue eyes, trimmed by long, gorgeous lashes that whenever she batted and fluttered at him whenever she wanted something of him, whether that was his help or just longing for him to kiss her, he would do it, for he could never resist her longing looks. Lovely eyes, innocent and pure, yet somehow gentle, that always held a tiny warmth within them, of which Tyrion knew he wanted it for himself. If it could be made possible to bottle Sansa’s warmth and hoard it within a tiny glass vial that he could keep in his pocket, then he would do it.

Florid cheeks and flawlessly sculpted, pink, luscious lips, as if crafted by the angels and the gods themselves. And this angel was married to him. All these features sat together on a delicate, almost angelic face. And Sansa was all his. His wife. No one else’s. Such sweet bliss… He had been happy for a moment. At least until thoughts of Ramsay re-emerged and threatened to consume him, to take him away from his place of peace, were in his mind, Sansa was out here with _him_.

Tyrion let out a low warning growl from the back of his throat at the thought of Lord Roose Bolton’s admittedly much more handsome, taller son, taking _his_ wife for himself, and before he could stop himself he had curled his gloved hand into a fist and had punched the wall behind him. This was _not_ good.

He was hoping Phoebe and Qyburn would arrive soon, as he fully intended to ask the healer if what Sansa was wanting to do was a viable option for keeping Ramsay out of her skirt tails and by Tyrion’s side, if the simple fact if she were to become with child.

And anyone—Ramsay Bolton or not—who would dare to try to take his wife away from him would find themselves flung off this tower’s balcony and towards the waiting stones below. “Get a hold of yourself,” he whisper-hissed through clenched teeth as he finally caught sight of Phoebe and Qyburn’s silhouettes, slowly making their way to the castle at a leisurely place that was admittedly much too slow for him. He needed Qyburn here right _now_ , at least fifteen minutes ago.

The fear traveled in his veins but never made it to his facial muscles or his skin. His complexion remained pale and matt, his eyes quite steady.

Through a swirl of sickening fears, came Tywin’s voice again, condescending and positively furious at his decision to marry the girl.

_You are a monster, my son. The only one who would dare to love you is that heathen Stark bitch. I should have killed you both when I had the chance. And now, you have ruined that girl’s future by allowing her to lay with you. You have doomed an innocent life to certain death_.

“NO!” he roared, striking at the wall with his gloved fist, an act with sent swells of pain shooting up his wrist. He was lucky it wasn’t broken. “Y—you’re wrong. She—she loves me,” he groaned, anguished. “Go away.”

_Oh, but I’ll never truly leave you, my son. I am the only one who could ever look upon your face without fear. The girl only married you because she is afraid of you. Of what you would do to her if she rejected you._

“You’re _wrong_ ,” Tyrion growled irritably, waving his hand away as if he thought that could make the dark demonic voices in his head left him in peace. “You told me once that a man unwilling to fight for what he wants gets what he deserves. I fought for Sansa, and I deserve her, Father. She—she loves me, and you cannot hurt me anymore. I killed you. I shot you with a fucking crossbow and put an arrow straight in your goddamned chest. You’re dead,” he growled lowly, balling his hands into fists.

It seemed unfair that no matter how much he strived to be the man his conscience and Sansa wanted him to be, that he knew he could be, it would keep taunting him with his failures, never really truly leaving him. _That's how the regret is getting me, it's taking a few my defenses at a time. It comes in waves, what I should have done or said differently, what I shouldn't have done at all. I can't undo it, but can I make it right. I just don't know. All I can do is try harder for her_.

Tyrion tried to shove aside his dark thoughts and shot a silent prayer to the gods above, those vicious bastard cunts, to keep his wife safe.

But gods, how he missed her…


	36. Phoebe

**AN: Oh, Lordy. Sorry for the delay in posting. Life has gotten a bit busier with work and personal projects these days, but I have not forgotten about this story! It was starting to feel like two chapters a day was getting to be a bit much and overwhelming for readers to keep up with, so I scaled back to one every couple of days in the hopes that it's not so much :) Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

**Phoebe**

Sansa’s handmaiden bit the inside wall of her cheek in agitation as she swiftly made her way up the staircase, tiptoeing and having to lift the skirts of her simple brown chemise and dark brown overdress, to make as little noise as possible. Phoebe Snow poked her head around the corner of the study, wondering if what Lord Tyrion was asking of her, to snoop through _Master’s_ _belongings_ , was such a good idea, but the little lion lord had insisted that, as Sansa’s handmaiden, and if she _genuinely_ cared about restoring the rightful order to Winterfell and the entire rest of the damned North, then she would do it if this meant driving the Bolton forces out of this frigid castle once and for all.

Well. When the dwarf had put it like _that_ , who was she to argue with such sound logic? The petite little blonde bit the inside wall of her cheek and noticed that Master Ramsay’s door was slightly ajar, but no candles were lighted, and she could just about make out a single beam of moonlight streaming in through.

Gingerly, with bated breaths, she crept towards the door, waiting to see if Master would emerge in one of his usual drunken rages, but it would appear that nobody else was about. _Silence_. Phoebe Snow was, for the moment, alone.

Letting out a slightly shaking and unsteady sigh of relief, allowing the tension in her shoulders to leave her, Phoebe opened the door to the room she had only been allowed in a very small handful of times, the most recent of which was last month when Master had ordered Snow to spy on Lady Sansa.

It was odd to see this place in the middle of the night, hidden in darkness, shrouded in shadow and mystery and intrigue. What dark secrets and schemes of Master’s lay uncovered for Phoebe to find? As much as she did not want to be here, and she could not shake the feeling like she was betraying Master by agreeing to do this, Phoebe Snow had to constantly remind herself that she wished to serve the last of the Starks, and she could do that by helping the Imp.

At the very thought of Lady Sansa, Phoebe hoped that Sansa Stark was all right. She had not seen Lady Stark since Bolton’s soldiers had escorted her back.

It was rumored that Ramsay Snow was keeping her locked up, prisoner down below, but… Phoebe could have sworn that she heard whispers the other night. Sansa whispering something, though at first Phoebe had shaken it off, thinking it to be one of the ‘little birds’ that worked for Lord Varys as his spies.

The voice had been too low to discern what Lady Stark was saying, but Phoebe had hoped that, following this little unescorted jaunt to Master’s study, that she would be able to find a way to sneak in to see Sansa, to ensure she was all right, that Master Bolton had not laid a hand on her in anger or his advances.

The young blonde could have sworn she’d heard Reek the Freak’s voice, and something about Sansa begging with the broken, battered man, to light a candle in the sill, though such an act had yet to be accomplished.

Phoebe scoffed. _Reek would never do it_ , she thought angrily, biting down on her tongue hard enough that she soon tasted the metallic tang of hot iron. Blood. _The freak is too much of a coward. If she wanted help, she should have asked me_ , Phoebe thought, stifling a low warning growl at the back of her throat, unable to explain away her sudden feelings of jealousy towards Reek.

In truth, she had no reason to be jealous of the man that used to be Iron Born and strong, but…but…there had been a look exchanged between Sansa Stark and Reek the Freak. A look that suggested to Phoebe that Sansa pitied him, and seemed to wish to help him, but did not know how to go about it.

She wanted someone to look at _her_ that way, to help her out of her current predicament, though she had no friends, no real, true friends to call upon, and such a dream yet again was hopeless for someone of her status.

Phoebe inexplicably felt her cheeks begin to grow hot as a surge of anger coursed through her veins, feeling as though her bloodstream was being set aflame, hotter than any dragon of old could conjure, as she looked towards Master’s study, her cobalt blue orbs fixated upon Ramsay Bolton’s desk.

She shuddered, feeling a tremor of revulsion travel down her spine, really wishing that she were anywhere else _but_ here, working for anyone but Bolton.

Phoebe was about to turn on the heel of her brown boot and would have left the study right then and there, and she would tell Lord Tyrion that she was unable to find any evidence of Master Bolton’s plans against Sansa. She scowled and furrowed her brows. She was not sure what exactly he’d been expecting her to find, for she could not read very well. A few letters here and there, sentences more like, but not as well as she would have hoped. Tyrion promised to teach her, but she had rejected his offer out of fear of Master or the Warden learning of this little development. _Perhaps someday when the world was kinder…I could learn then?_ Angrily, the little blonde shook her head to clear her mind of such childish notions. Such a dream was foolish for her, to serve under the command of a family who would treat her right.

That she might one day have a husband who would never lay a hand upon her in anger, never force her to do anything she was not comfortable with.

The young Snow handmaiden had been about to leave the study. This place, this very castle to Phoebe, was a nightmare in her eyes and mind without ever even having to close her eyes to sleep. The dry winds carrying the Bolton victims’ strangled screams and faint voices. The flashes of candlelight in darkness. Blood dripping from the eyes of those trapped within a canvas made of sorrow and dread. Their blood staining every wall of Winterfell ever since the Boltons had laid siege to the castle and taken complete control, their tears filling the well that lay vacant at the back part of the castle, with merely a broken bucket hung by a mere string of rope that was little more than a thread.

Spiders wove their tales of woe in a code that only the dead and dying could read, of which there seemed to be an abundance of these days, as long as the current Warden of the North was in charge and that of his bastard son.

Crows and ravens flew over the castle to eat the souls that could not hide, could not leave, their earthly coils, tethers that bound them to the physical realm of the living here in Westeros, for some reason, would not let them go.

This desolate castle that within resided a family of snakes when it should have been wolves, was not necessarily a place of fear…but rather…of silence.

The air inside Master’s study smelt as if it had not moved in many years, festering like a stagnant pool of water, a stench that made Phoebe crinkle her nose in disgust and pull a face, and that was when something caught her eye.

Phoebe Snow stared at the object for a moment before looking around the small study to see if there were any other curtains hanging from the wall, but there were none. At least, none that young woman could see for herself, really.

“This is a _stupid_ idea, Snow,” she grumbled darkly to herself, mumbling it under her breath along with a few choices curse words that, had she been in the company of the other kitchen wenches, she’d have been stared at for saying, with the head cook deeming it unladylike, even for a lowborn girl like her.

Though her curiosity was piqued, and Phoebe knew she wouldn’t be able to leave without knowing what lay behind this strange velvet red curtain with a golden rope hanging off to its side. Her mind was screaming at her to turn around, to get out of here before someone discovered she was in Master Bolton’s study without express permission, and more to the point besides, what if she pulled the curtain back, only to discover that the drape wouldn’t be able to be put back? Then Master Ramsay would know someone had been in here without his consent and _then_ there would be seven shades of holy hell to pay.

However, the other, stronger voice inside her head was urging her to pull it, revealing whatever strange mystery lurked on the other side of this stone wall. Clutching the golden rope in her hand, her slender fingers curling instinctively into a fist, Phoebe Snow cast one more cautious glance about the study, seeing no one, hearing no encroaching footsteps, and then she pulled it.

As she did, what was revealed behind this curtain was not exactly what Phoebe had been expecting, though, in actuality, she supposed she did not know what to expect, nonetheless, to the handmaiden, it was extremely intriguing. The oil portrait was of a sallow-face man, seemingly around Master Bolton’s current age of twenty and one, he was of no doubt someone of importance, judging by the ceremonial garb, dressed in a black leather overcoat and crimson undershirt, though Phoebe Snow admittedly had no idea who this man was. The painting depicted locks as black as raven’s wing that fell to his shoulders and brilliant gray eyes that rivaled a perfectly polished knight’s suit of armor. Though the young blonde woman knew it to be just a painting, still, Sansa’s handmaiden could not help but be drawn to the he-stranger’s eyes.

No man who sought to be mysterious could truly be. There was something about wanting the attention that always gave them away.

Truly mysterious men held no such desire, their motives remained hidden and hence the allure. They have a stand-offish quality that dares contact without inviting it. They are independent and casual, nonchalant, and slow to temper, analyzing situations with ease. They are kind but don't form emotional attachments often, though when they do, they can be counted on to be truly heroic. Phoebe did not know who this man might be or had been to Master Ramsay Bolton, but what she could tell just by looking from his imposing figure of the portrait was that this man was well and truly a mysterious man.

The stranger’s shrewd expression was staring directly towards the viewer, and his piercing gray-blue eyes seemed to penetrate right out of the portrait as if there were real-life behind the paint, a fact which unnerved the young blonde and set the handmaiden’s blood in her veins to ice, and she shuddered in fear.

Phoebe knelt down at the golden frame which held the formidable painting, Phoebe Snow saw that the man’s name was inscribed in the fine print.

She could read names, at the very least, so she was grateful for that.

_Domeric Bolton_. Phoebe felt her blood chill in her veins, and she reeled backward, a hand raking through her short blonde pixie in disbelief, blue eyes wide and round with shock. She quickly recollected a conversation the Warden of the North held with none other than Reek the Freak once. Phoebe had been in the midst of about to deliver a meal to Master Bolton when the unusual somber, clipped, and hard tones of Lord Roose Bolton’s voice gave her pause.

“ _It is my belief that Ramsay killed him. A sickness of the bowels, Maester Uthor told me when it happened. But I believe my trueborn son was poisoned. In the Vale, Domeric had enjoyed the company of Redfort’s sons. My son had always wanted a brother, so he rode, seeking my bastard son, Ramsay Snow out. I forbade it and advised Domeric against such a foolish act, but he was a man grown and thought that he knew better than his lord father. Now his bones lie beneath the Dreadfort along with the bones of his brothers, who died stillborn in the cradle, and I am left with fucking Ramsay Snow. Tell me, Freak, if the Kinslayer is accursed then what is a father to do when one son slays another? What then_?”

Beneath Phoebe’s feet, the stone floor felt incredibly hard, and she moved to the edge of the room, a hand alongside the wall to guide her way in the dark.

Her poor mind felt like it was reeling as she recollected the Warden’s words. She simply could not believe that a brother would kill another. It could not be true. As cruel as Master was most of the time, as cold as ice and merciless when it came to torturing his latest victims, Phoebe refused to believe that the man truly did not care for his brother, to go to the extent to _murder_ Domeric?

Just as Phoebe tried to get a better lock at Ramsay Snow’s brother, of which the resemblance between the two men was absolutely striking, she heard a light tapping sound resonate off the walls of Master Bolton’s study, by the doors. Flinching in fright, the petite little blond nearly screamed aloud.

For she had thought herself to be alone, and if such was not the case anymore, then she needed to flee, and quickly, lest she is discovered here.

Phoebe could not, however, before finding a place to hide, now knowing who the man in the oil painting was, looked intently towards the portrait of Lord Roose Bolton’s trueborn son. It was difficult for the young woman to get any sense of the kind of man Domeric Bolton might have been. She wondered if he would have been kind, or if he would have been another sadistic bastard like Ramsay.

Still, she could tell just judging by the man’s pose, he was a man of stature, one who took his position very seriously, or at least, that was the impression that the portrait gave off. With long dark hair, and an astute, penetrative gaze, it was a far cry from the man’s bastard brother who tortured living people, flaying them alive until there was no skin left on their bones.

A far cry from the man who enjoyed having his precious hell hounds rip apart an innocent bit-by-bit until the dogs could feast on their bones for a snack. “I hope that peace and comfort have come to you. May you find peace in death that you did not find in life, milord Domeric,” she whispered before turning to close the portrait’s velvet curtain, when the sound of approaching footfalls coming from afar, more than one, reached her eardrums. She froze.

_Oh, no…by the gods and light of the seven be damned, why now?!?_

Realizing that she would soon be discovered if she continued to linger out in the open like this, Phoebe knew she needed to find a place to hide, and _now_.

Whoever those people were, Phoebe Snow knew that there could be no uncertainty whatsoever that they were making their way towards Master’s study, and the moment a candle was lighted or they held a lit torch in hand and the flames would cast their warmth and light about the room, such light would settle upon the young blonde handmaiden of Lady Sansa and Lord Tyrion.

And then there would be questions. Lots of questions that Phoebe could not answer, not if she valued keeping her position and keeping Sansa alive.

Phoebe let out a tiny, muffled whimper as she knelt under Ramsay’s desk, trying to make herself as small as possible, tucking in her dress behind her legs and willing her breaths to come to almost a complete stop as she clenched her eyes shut as the voices that accompanied said footsteps grew even louder, and Phoebe shot a pleading prayer inside her head to the gods that she would not be discovered here.

But Fate, however, was not to be kind to the young blonde, and Phoebe Snow inwardly flinched as the door to Master Bolton’s study opened, and she froze, her blood chilled as she recognized a voice that belonged to Master, and another mumbling murmur that belonged to none other than Reek the Freak.

Phoebe could not help but roll her eyes as Reek said something, mumbling something almost disjointed, but she quickly knew that Reek was asking Master Bolton to come closer to where he was standing.

“Why?” drawled the deep, disenthralled voice that belonged to none other than Ramsay. Phoebe bit the wall of her cheek and froze. Whilst Reek’s voice sounded much farther away, Bolton’s voice sounded closer and self-contained.

And close. Much too close. _Damn, damn, damn!_ Phoebe felt a surge of panic well within the confines of her chest as her heart erratically thrummed.

She was honestly kind of surprised both Master and Reek couldn’t hear it.

“Why is this curtain drawn?” Phoebe’s eyes widened in abject horror.

Goddamn. She’d forgotten to draw back the curtain. And then the—

And then a deadly, poisonous silence befell the room. There was absolute stillness. Even her own breath seemed to die as soon as it left her mouth.

It was a haunting sort of tranquility, like the sky right before a thunderstorm, so instead of being soothed by it, Sansa’s handmaiden felt as if her senses had become heightened. She felt like the prey, and Master, the predator, who was now but a few feet away from discovering her hiding place.

_All he would have to do is look down and…_

Phoebe did not dare to complete _that_ horrible thought. Ramsay Bolton’s voice would not have suggested anger to most people, though Phoebe Snow liked to think she knew Master well enough by now to know that the bastard’s calm, soft timbre kept hidden a deep-seated rage within, that, if she had judged him and his personality correctly, was about to burst forth at any moment, and, assuming that she remained undetected, Reek was about to get the brunt of the blame for her mistake. The young blonde handmaiden felt her heart sink to the pit of her stomach, and she might as well just fling herself off the top of the castle’s roof.

“Did you do this, Reek?” growled Ramsay Bolton’s voice, dangerously soft and quiet, his voice still present, and Phoebe could only guess at the man’s location, that he had seemingly moved away from the desk and towards the portrait that Phoebe had foolishly forgotten to close the red velvet curtain behind. “Did someone set you up to do this, Reek?” he snarled, and his voice sounded hoarser and much rougher than it had but only a second or two ago.

“N—no, M—M—Master, I—I s—swear it,” Reek mumbled hoarsely.

“You are telling me the truth? You know I _hate_ it when you _lie_ , Reek…”

Phoebe winced, stifling a mewl that threatened to escape from the back of her throat. She could not help flinching. Not once in all her years of working for Master and his family had she ever heard Ramsay sound quite like this…

For lack of a better word to describe the bastard son of Roose Bolton, he sounded terrifying. Reek must have felt the same way, for she could hear him sniveling, shaking, and whimpering in the background. The young blonde clenched her eyes shut, contorting her face into a grimace as she heard the unmistakable sound of Ramsay’s strong hand backhanding Reek’s left cheek.

Master had struck Reek across the face. For something that wasn’t his fault.

“Did you think that I did not _know_?” bellowed Ramsay, and Phoebe froze and felt her breaths catch in her throat as she realized Master sounded tired.

Almost…dare she even thinks this next part… _depressed_? She couldn’t say.

What followed was the longest, deadliest silence and pause in Phoebe’s twenty-six years of life. She could hear her own breath and felt the blood pumping furiously through her veins as adrenaline coursed through them, and she wanted nothing more than to bolt from underneath the man’s desk and flee.

The bastard’s voice was collectively calm and almost quiet. A dangerous sign. Phoebe would have preferred it if the Master had shouted at her. As Ramsay’s voice rose an octave in rage, Phoebe Snow let out a muffled whine as she felt herself being yanked out from under the desk by her arm and tossed unceremoniously and violently against one of the library’s marble pillars.

She flinched and clenched her eyes shut as the overwhelming, hot burn of a lit candle in its holder was thrust almost immediately in her face. Poor Phoebe had very little time to react, her view was completely blinded by the obstructing light. Phoebe let out a mewl as she felt the heat from the flames of the candle being lowered, and, reluctantly, perhaps against her better judgment, she found herself staring face-to-face with Ramsay, his listless cerulean orbs fuming.

Phoebe swallowed nervously. She was in a very big spot of trouble.

And there was no way out of this…


	37. Reek

** Reek **

In Phoebe’s stillness, Lady Sansa’s handmaiden scared poor Reek. Perhaps it was the moonlight streaming in through the window, making the young blonde woman’s skin so pale, or the lack of wind that did not waft through the open barred window, letting every one of her short hairs hang without movement, Reek wasn’t sure. He watched, eyes wide with horror, as the girl did not even blink at having Master discovering her secret hiding spot. She continuously kept her gaze fixated on Reek as if somehow he was whispering a horrible, dirty secret to her, and Reek felt a strange, unfamiliar ache and a fiery warmth begin to blossom in its chest, starting its way in the pit of his stomach and working its way up to his chest and settled on his tongue in the form of bitter acidic bile as visions of punishments inflicted on her danced through his mind.

Reek could feel the fear in his chest waiting to take over. Perhaps it only wanted to protect him, but he knew that it was much too late for that now.

It sat within the confines of his heart, the damned stubborn corded muscle in his chest, like an angry ball propelling him towards anxiety he didn’t want.

He watched as Phoebe Snow let out a slow, controlled breath and attempted to loosen her body movements, though the sheer force of Master shoving the young blonde up against the wall was enough to crack her back.

The girl gave her shoulders a wiggle and rolled her neck to crack it, all the while never once averting her gaze from Master. It was a decent enough effort.

Enough to fool the casual outside observer, but for the onlooker with a keen eye (as Reek was), Phoebe Snow was a walking disaster for new tension.

Her eyes lingered on Ramsay Bolton with the alertness that came from heavy stress and her hands remained clenched at her sides by subconscious demand. Reek instinctively flinched, body recoiling as he drew ever so closer. He could feel the sudden shift within himself and a strange, unfamiliar desire to help Phoebe Snow in whatever way that he could, even if it meant bearing the brunt of Master’s punishments. He was _not_ about to let a woman undergo one of Master Bolton’s grueling ideas of a ‘punishment’ downstairs.

“Why are you here?” Ramsay Bolton’s voice drawled, dangerously quiet and collected, and both of his servants flinched at the soft, almost tender-like quality to his baritone voice. He was especially volatile and dangerous whenever he got like this, and Reek could see it in Phoebe’s eyes she wished he’d shout.

Anything was better than _this_. At least when he ranted and raved, they knew where he stood, and his frequent fireworks of red hot sparks burnt out bright and fast, but it was these dangerously ice-cold moods that were the worst.

“I—I…m—milord, please forgive me…” the young blonde murmured, her cobalt eyes cast downward at her boots as she gathered the skirts of her simple chemise and brown overdress and sank into a low, clumsy curtsy.

Without warning, Ramsay Bolton relinquished his grip on Phoebe’s arm, which resulted in the youthful little blonde slumping indignantly to the ground, wherein she rested upon Master on her knees, a sight which sent him smirking.

Not showing any signs that Roose’s bastard son had injured her, Snow merely proceeded to bow her head in a sign of submissive defeat and clutched herself around her middle as it was fairly fucking cold here in Master’s study.

Reek felt his breaths catch in his throat as he looked around for a way out.

He winced and let out a muffled whimper as he watched Phoebe attempt to pull away and had somehow miraculously managed to free herself of Bolton’s ironclad grip on her arm, and had been about to turn away and bolt for the door, when she felt his strong, calloused hand grip onto her shoulder and tug her back, causing her to falter and almost lose her footing.

“ **HEY**!” she shouted, momentarily forgetting all thoughts of the proper edict when around Master Bolton or his lord father, as she twisted at the waist slightly, to better look her assailant in his listless orbs, and with a surprised and pained wince, turned to look Ramsay Snow dead in the eye. Phoebe probably would have fallen were it not for Ramsay’s strong hand still gripping tightly onto her right upper arm. “Let go of me!” she shouted, sticking out her bottom lip in a slight pout as she glowered at Master.

Reek could tell what she was trying to do, to make Master Bolton see that what he was doing to his servants, and to Lady Sansa and her husband, was wrong. But this was not the way. He felt waves of panic wash over his wretched, deformed body as he realized Phoebe would get herself killed.

Phoebe gulped nervously and swallowed past the lump forming in her throat that threatened to close off her passageways. Sansa’s handmaiden knew she ought not to be staring at the Warden’s bastard son like this, for fear of it might provoke him even further, an unwise move on her part, given he was already not in a good move and proving himself to be unreasonable and erratic.

Still…there had to be a way to reach him, if there was any good in him at all, she had to try. “M—master, please don’t do this…” she whispered pitifully. A muscle in her jaw tensed and twitched as she clenched her eyes tightly shut, scrunching her face, and turning it to the right while she waited for the inevitable backhanded blow of the man’s hand that would send her sprawling.

Ramsay’s hands tightened and reached out for her waist, coming to grip up almost painfully tight, and the world in Master’s small library seemed to rush by in a blur as she felt the beginning onset of tears prick at the corner of her eyes.

“Theon…help me… _please_ …” she whimpered, lifting her chin to blearily attempt to focus her attention on Reek’s ashen face, beads of sweat on his brow. She knew the pain was coming as Ramsay’s strong hands violently shoved her forward away from him. It went by fast, yet slow, almost suspended.

Then a hard impact as the young fair-haired handmaiden finally hit the floor. Phoebe felt her left ankle move in a way that it shouldn't, and she felt the pressure and she stifled a pained cry of surprise as the appendage twisted. Definitely not broken, as least not that she could tell, but sprained. Tyrion was really going to be upset with her later on for this. She bit her tongue and tasting coppery blood that had lingered on her tongue as she bit down in the effort to keep from crying out in pain. Ramsay was yelling something incoherent nearby.

Without even having to look, she could feel the cut above her brow from where Master’s ring had caught her earlier this morning reopen, and trickle beaded droplets of crimson, garish crimson in color on the white tile in front of her. Phoebe didn't move—anything to delay the part where she took in what she looked like now. Torn skin, weeping. She could feel the bile rising at the back of her throat. Phoebe tried to pinpoint exactly where Ramsay Bolton had disappeared to, for the first thing she noticed was that his strong hands no longer had a vice grip on her waist.

But when she made a move to attempt to sit up, let alone stand, it was quickly proven futile as another fiery pain pulsated from her ankle.

Phoebe lay on the ground, her face closed in a grimace, her skin growing pale and clammy, beads of sweat forming upon her brow. Her blue eyes froze over like the surface of a winter puddle, robbing them of their usual warmth as she struggled and fought against the tides of blackness, the ebb and flow of nausea waves that washed over her body. Sharp pains lanced through her head and colorful spots flashed in front of her eyes. It felt like her whole body had been badly beaten and every movement, especially the slightest twitch in her left ankle, ached terribly.

Regardless, she needed to get out of here, away from Master. Lord Tyrion’s plan to overthrow the Boltons and rescue Sansa was, regretfully, going have to wait. How could Lady Sansa expect her to help when she could barely stand upright, let alone speak a cohesive thought when she was in so much pain? Surely, the pair of them would understand, right?

Wincing in pain, she attempted to grab onto a nearby white marble pillar for support but cried out in pain and quickly lowered her arm. Putting strain on her ankle was not wise for the time being, she decided. Blearily, she lifted her head and tried to focus her gaze a few feet from herself to focus on whatever was happening with Master Bolton just now.

The handmaiden wanted to get a glimpse of this savior, for she could see another figure, albeit hidden in the shadows, had pinned the raving man up against a wall, and another person, a nun of the church by the looks of her, had joined as well and was saying something in low murmurs to whoever had the man dead to rights against the wall.

She could just barely make out a figure, albeit a rather misshapen one, so it would seem. Either that or perhaps the dimly lit candlelight from the candelabras scattered about through various points of the library were casting a distorted shadow nearby where Master Bolton was cornered.

Phoebe fought to keep her eyes open, the panicked man’s swift scream that caused the hair on the back of her neck to stand up having forced her from her state of semi-consciousness for just a brief moment. Through the fog swirling in her mind as the darkness threatened to take her, she could see someone standing in front of her, protecting her.

Phoebe let out a tiny groan as it escaped her lips as she fought to lift her head, and even that throbbed and pounded against the back of her skull from where she had hit her head in the fall after twisting her ankle. The gods above had answered her prayers, it would seem, and had sent her someone, maybe it was that knight from earlier, Ser Bronn, who she’d rain into the hallways during supper.

Oh, how she wanted desperately to look upon her savior's face, though it hurt too much just to lift her head. Through the darkness as the thick wave of sweet, blissful relief reached for her with its blackened arms outstretched, Phoebe's heartbeats pounded loudly, echoing in her eardrums, alongside fading pleas for help.

And then…the feeling in her body drained away until all was black. Had she been awake, she would have known that Reek had just saved her life.


	38. Reek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all for those that are following! I went through kind of a rough spell lately when we had a really big storm here that caused our city to lose power for a couple of days, and discovered in the interim that my computer somehow* did not manage to save my files which held my completed GOT fic, so I've had to pretty much start from scratch and to be honest, it took the wind out of my sails. I'm still hoping I can finish this story, but since I have to take it from pretty much a new direction and had no backups on my computer, my updating on this story might be slower....The motivation to continue is hard, since I'm now left with a sense of paranoia, like 'what if it happens again?' But I will do my best to finish as I hate leaving my works unfinished...

** Reek **

_Theon_. Not Reek the Freak. Not monster, not cretin or accursed wretch. _Theon_. She—she had called him by his _name_. The fact that Master was hurting Snow right in front of Reek’s eyes was more than enough for him to act. He couldn’t quite explain it, why the burning fire laced through his wretched veins hotter than any dragon could ever flame, was more than enough for him to act.

The world had teeth and could bite you with them at any time it wanted. Reek had learned this the hard way when he had attempted to escape Winterfell the first time by using a pair of climbing spikes to scale the castle walls, and Master Bolton, regardless of societal rank or not, had broken the last vestiges of Reek’s patience. Standing in front of Ramsay Bolton was, preventing the taller, stockier man from getting to Phoebe Snow, was more than enough for Ramsay’s ire and wrath to quickly dissipate towards Snow’s betrayal and he turned the worst of his anger onto Reek, and he kicked him.

Over and over again. His fractured mind conceded to Master’s torment at this point, unable to bring all but one thought to completion: Victory was his.

Lady Sansa’s handmaiden was safe. The pains as Master’s fist pummeled into his stomach, causing Reek to double over in pain, the strength leaving his knees as he collapsed to the floor of Master’s library, was not sharp, like a needle or a knife, all of which Reek by this point was very well acquainted with those weapons and what they felt like when they pierced his wretched, foul-smelling skin, but instead, where Ramsay Bolton was repeatedly driving his fist into his stomach, it burned his insides better than hot, scalding water.

The Bolton Bastard had one hell of a mean right hook, and it showed, though Reek felt something within him explode as the incessant pounding and throbbing of his temples continued as Master continued with the verbal insults.

Theon wasn’t even aware he’d drawn his fist back as it connected with Master’s twisted broken nose, that was very evident it had been re-set a time or two in times past. He felt as though his body were jolting with new vigor, and untapped rage that was boiling up from his stomach to the rest of his body.

Theon felt hot. He stared at Master Bolton’s grotesque form again and realized he was no man. All that was left of Master was nothing but a monster.

He didn’t even notice his fists were clenching until blood came back on them. Theon was too busy staring across the way at Ramsay, who was roaring at him, like an enraged dragon. Theon stared at Master again and realized he was no dragon. Behind the vile cursing spewing as black, putrid hate from the phalange he called a tongue and the threats, Bolton was fidgeting, moving back and forth. He threw his body weight behind the fist that edged closer to Theon’s face, it hit his jaw with such force blood pooled into his mouth. Pain erupted from the point of impact.

With his own two hands, Theon grasped Ramsay’s head in his hands and brought his kneecap up to Ramsay Bolton’s nose, there was a blunt crack and Theon let out a guttural growl from the back of his throat as he released his dark-haired head. Crimson leaked from both his nostrils and his nose was twisted right. He drew his fist back again and it plowed into Theon’s stomach, it was like hitting a stone head-on. His guts smashed together, blood vessels bursting. Theon repaid this by punching his jaw, his fist collided with all his body weight. Theon continued this battering until his former Master fell to the floor. His chest gently rose and sank with each shallow breath he drew in, and there was a horrible gurgling sound emitting from the back of his throat that sounded like his time had come.

For Death to take him away and spirit him away from Winterfell, sever the earthly coil that bound Bolton’s physical body to this realm, and may he rot in the seven hells below. Theon let out another vicious growl and spat at his feet.

A startled shout from behind him caused Theon to jump.

“ **THEON GREYJOY**!” A man’s loud, commanding baritone voice commanded as it rent the otherwise silent library, save for the shallow sounds of Ramsay Bolton’s ragged, gasping breaths as the man choked on his own blood.

Theon swallowed nervously, feeling like he could very well swallow his own bloody tongue if he weren’t careful, and favored silence as an apt response.

“ _What is the meaning of this?!_?” the Stranger’s voice growled angrily.

Theon visibly flinched and ran his tongue along the wall of his teeth as he slowly turned around to regard none other than Lady Sansa’s own husband, Lord Tyrion, whose face had paled in anger, shock, and a myriad of other emotions darted through the dwarf’s green eyes, though something within the little man shifted as he saw the semi-unconscious figure of Ramsay Bolton.

The Imp strode up towards Bolton and prodded at the taller man’s ribcage with his thumb and forefinger, before turning back and regarding Theon with a look of exasperation intermingled with that of admiration on his scarred face.

“I should _punish_ you for this, young master Greyjoy,” Lord Tyrion Lannister growled, an impassive expression on his face. “You have brutally beaten another man senseless within an inch of his life, and the man who was to wed my own wife, no less. I can think of only one thing to say to your…heinous actions that would surely see you put to death,” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger as he turned and walked back towards the entrance of the library, pausing only for a fraction of a second to allow Theon a moment to lift the unconscious little blonde Snow girl into his arms.

Pain seared through his abdomen better than a branding iron for cattle, where Ramsay had kicked him, over and over again, his fractured mind pretty much conceding to the torment at this point, unable to bring all but one thought to completion: Victory was _his_. The girl was safe, and if Lord Tyrion and Lady Sansa could flee Winterfell and escape the Bolton’s, then they too would be safe.

The pain wasn't sharp, like needlepoint or a knife, all of which Theon was unfortunately well acquainted with those weapons and what they felt like when they pierced your skin, but instead, where Ramsay had repeatedly driven his fist into his stomach, it burned his insides better than hot scaling water. The man had one hell of a mean right hook, and it showed earlier. The man felt the corners of his lip twist upward in a triumphant sneer as he glanced down at the man's broken nose.

Even if he made it, those scars, Theon knew, would be forever.

With a wrinkled nose, still carrying the now unconscious little blonde in his arms, he took a step backward. It was tempting to whisper something into Master’s ear, that he was broken, and Reek had won, but what was the damn point. Ramsay, this mad beast, this animal, this monster, would be lucky to remember his own name when he woke up. IF he woke up at all, that was.

Theon sneered and knelt slightly, having to shift the young woman in his arms, though she murmured something unintelligible. He froze, blinking his wide eyes like he was nothing more than a deer caught in the sights of an arrow, though the little blonde did not wake, for which Gareth was grateful.

Still knocked out, though, for which he was kind of relieved. He didn't want her asking all kinds of questions on the walk upstairs as to what happened.

“Thank you.” Only two words coming from the Imp, but the weighted gratitude of the meaning behind Lord Tyrion Lannister’s words carried more value than Theon Greyjoy knew what to do with. “Thank you, Theon. For putting this vicious bastard cunt in his place. And for doing your best to protect my wife,” he sighed, suddenly sounding exhausted. “We’re leaving, Lady Sansa and I,” he announced, the edges of his voice clipped and hard. “Come with us, Theon. You are a good man, with a kind heart, something that Sansa sees and recognizes. Join us. Fight for us. Fight for _her_. Reclaim your honor, Theon.”

Tyrion led them down the path that led to the dungeons, to the crypts, no doubt to retrieve his wife, whom Theon knew better than most that Ramsay was keeping captive in one of the cells. As he wrenched open the door, which Master had foolishly left unlocked, in Theon’s opinion, expecting Theon to smile at his offer, but he did not.

None came. Instead, his mouth remained an uncharacteristic grim line amidst his growing three-day stubble on his jawline.

Theon turned, but too slowly for Lord Tyrion to consider normal. When he spoke, his voice trailed slowly, like his words were unwilling to take flight.

There was a sadness in the man’s eyes, glossy, and his eyes were wide as Tyrion darted briefly into the shadows, speaking in low murmurs, and if Theon strained to hear, he could hear Lady Sansa’s voice, and Theon instinctively felt himself stiffen as Sansa emerged from the darkness and stepped into the light.

Theon cringed as Sansa’s inquisitive gaze darted to lock eyes with him and her gaze remained unabashed and unwavering, and he wished she’d look away.

He liked to hope that during her time here back in her own home that Reek had shown over and over that he would do anything in this world to atone for past mistakes, and yet still, Lady Stark mistrusted him. It was in her eyes. Theon had thought Sansa had known the desires of his heart. Where his allegiances lay, but now that she had purposefully shown him her hand, all Theon felt was a horrible aching blooming in the confines of his chest.

Sansa misread him and then felt bitter with Theon, angry, though all the while he was simply doing his best to care for Lady Stark and ensure no harm befell her. His heart still thrummed erratically, signaling he was still alive, that this is no dream, but against a chest that now felt horribly hollow and empty.

His eyes still see, yet the world that was so close around the four of them seemed so far away. His mind began to shut down, unwilling to think anymore.

Perhaps this was a shock, Theon could not be for certain. “Theon. Enough. Come, we must go.” It was not Lord Tyrion’s voice that broke him out of his stunned state of paralysis and stupor, but rather that of Lady Sansa Stark’s.

Theon blinked owlishly at the young redhead, the last Wolf of Winterfell, and forced his attention to return to Sansa as she wordlessly held out her hand.

Sansa shot him a reluctant, sad half-smile, and when Theon again refused the offer of her hand, Theon Greyjoy watched as Sansa Stark’s features hardened, and soon, he felt certain he was looking into the eyes of Catelyn.

“Do not make me command it of you. Please do not make me ask again, Theon. Come. With. Us. I relieve you of your servitude under Ramsay Bolton. Serve my lord husband and me now. Fight for me, Theon. I…” Sansa bit her bottom lip and turned away, clearly torn between her desires to express exactly what was on her mind and her greater desire to escape Winterfell’s estate before Ramsay Bolton miraculously regained consciousness and decided to send his hounds after them again. “I want you by my side, Theon. I _need_ you…please.”

It was the use of the word ‘please’ that did it. Theon mutely nodded, and with slightly shaking hands, trying his hardest to ignore his bone-white and bloodied, crimson knuckles, he reached for Sansa Stark’s hand and embraced it.

Theon did not speak as he allowed Lord Tyrion and Lady Sansa to lead him and Phoebe (who still had not woken up) into infinite darkness as the tunnels of the crypts curled away coldly into pitch-blackness that was not right.

It felt unnatural, the light emanating from the torches that showed the rough cobblestoned walls dwindling as it snaked away. Theon felt his skin shudder and he could feel his brain starting to defocus, searching for a way out.

They should…they should go back upwards, up there, to the godswoods, to the forest where the paths run in every direction. Split up, make it harder for Bolton’s damned vicious hell hounds to find them all if they separated like this.

Theon felt like he jumped every time one of them made even the slightest noise. Moving made noise, and noise alerted Ramsay Bolton to their presence.

The man’s hearing was almost as good if not better than that of his dogs. It was bad enough they all still had to breathe. But Theon knew he wanted to see tomorrow enough for him to do whatever it took to help Lady Sansa escape.

Not making it out meant not being there for Sansa Stark, and that is something that Theon would never willingly do. Not again. He would not abandon her, and so, perhaps for better or for worse, he allowed Sansa to lead him through the crypts of Winterfell that would inevitably lead to the woods.

To their freedom…


	39. Brienne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gods above! I'm so sorry for the delay in updating! Since my computer crashed from that nasty storm a few weeks ago and it fried all my fic files (my own fault for not backing them up more properly) I've had to basically start the 2nd half of this plot from scratch, so I hope you bear with me and still enjoy :)

** Brienne **

Brienne stifled a growl of frustration as she stood at attention just outside of Winterfell's mess hall, biting the inside wall of her cheek.

Lord Tyrion and Sansa had attempted escape through the crypts, as did the broken limping man who was more accursed wretch than a man.

Reek the Freak, they called him, though Lady Sansa insisted on calling him by his trueborn name, Theon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands, who had if the rumors circulating about the following morning were true, recently pledged his allegiance to the Stark forces, what was left of them, that was.

Brienne did not know what had become of Lord Tyrion or Lady Sansa, merely that a team of Bolton soldiers had found them in the godswoods and had escorted them back, though under pain of punishment or death if they did not willingly return of their own volition she did not know. And now, here she was, forced to endure standing watch over _him_.

She did not particularly like the way Lord Bolton was eyeing her, and she could tell that from the scrutinizing way his lips pursed into a thin, rigid line, so thin in fact, that they almost disappeared, that he remembered.

Brienne breathed an audible sigh of relief as the Warden of the North scowled even deeper and flung his spoon down on the table and vacated the premises, mumbling half-heartedly under his breath of needing a tonic to quell the murmurs in his heart. Brienne felt her ears perk up at that.

_A complaint of the heart? Is it true, then? He sleeps so little at night._

Rumors swirled these days about the castle of Lord Roose Bolton's ailing health, though Brienne wouldn't put it past the Warden's bastard son to attempt to slit the man's throat in his sleep while he slept soundly.

_An entire family with no code of honor. No respect. Snakes in the night_. This thought permeated and drenched her memory of this place, and the last time she had come here had been a less than pleasant experience. _The Bolton soldiers threw me in the bear pit and pitted me against a bear. The Bear and the Maiden Fair, they sang. They mocked me once. They will never do it again, will they_?

These were the nights that displeased her the most when sleep would not come, and Brienne heard herself sigh and stiffened hard against her perch at the wall, glancing down at her outfit in dismay. The Bolton soldiers had stripped her of her armor. _Again_.

She crinkled her nose in disgust and glanced down at her new attire. The attire of an archer on the wall, not one of a knight. No armor.

A pair of simple brown leather breeches, a light green tunic, a belt around her waist, brown knee-high leather boots, a short dark brown cape, brown leather gauntlets, and brown fingerless leather gloves, a pitiful attempt at keeping her pink-tipped fingers warm.

But the worst part of it, aside from having her sword forcefully stolen from her, as they had given her a simple hunting knife in its place that would barely hold up against a fox, and a bow and arrow. No archer was she! Not a bowman! She was a sellsword, of sorts. The damned soldiers' pitiful attempt at a joke, they'd given her a meager hunting knife, its blade dull. Oathkeeper was gone, stolen by none other than Locke, a man-at-arms who was rumored to be Lord Bolton's best hunter.

The very same man who mutilated Ser Jaimie and cut off his sword hand. And for that, she owed both him and the young Bolton's bastard son for the horrific way he had tried twice to rape Lady Sansa Stark, once she was able to retrieve the sword Ser Jaimie had bestowed upon her as a gift.

Brienne scowled from her perch against the wall, twisting the dagger in the dim light of the mess hall as if it could slice up the rays of the sun itself, her expression aggravated by the dark shadows around her eyelids. Though rust had set in on the handle and blade, it was still strong, jagged.

More than enough to take down Locke at her earliest opportunity.

She felt…fed up. Tired. So _tired_. Done. Beyond done. Brienne felt as though she had had enough of it. The expectations, the pressures of life. The only thing she felt a sworn sense of duty towards left in this world was the promise that she had made to Lady Catelyn. To protect her daughters. Well. Given the other, the younger, Arya, was presumed dead, or at the very least missing, that fell towards her protecting Sansa, no matter the cost. Even if it meant giving up her own life for her.

Which she would do if it came to that, but then there was the very big problem that was Ramsay Bolton, the Bastard, the Skinflayer. Beast.

As long as he remained alive, he was, like it or not, a threat to Sansa's ambition, now that she was a Lannister and a player of the game of thrones.

Moreover, than that, the accursed whelp was a threat to Sansa's life.

And that…Brienne could not allow him to continue to draw in breath as long as he remained interested in Lady Stark, but how to make the boy's death an accident? The little Lord had come to her the other night, and had begged of Brienne in secret too, as he put it 'dispose of Ramsay Bolton.'

Though the question was _how_? These things must be done delicately… She sighed, resting her hand in her right cheek, and scowled.

How in all of the seven hells and kingdoms had her life come to _this_? From wanting to serve as a knight, someone of valor and honor, to now under the command of Lord Tyrion Lannister and Lady Sansa, who were adamant (at least the Imp was!) on the murdering of bastard Ramsay Snow.

If killing was done for means of survival, no one thought any less of you. There were those that took a life, the reluctant ones, and then when it was over and done with, they crumpled under the weight of the guilt.

There were others who killed only when absolutely necessary and never lost a wink of sleep over it. That was pretty much where Brienne rested her beliefs. She liked to consider herself one of those, though if there were a choice, she would not prefer to not kill at all. It's a messy business, slaying someone on behalf of someone else. War.

_A storm's coming_ , Lord Tyrion had told Brienne earlier in confidence prior to the assembly of the others in the mess hall, informing them of the fact that Winterfell would be snowed in unless the men cleared the doors.

"And we'd best be ready when it does," Brienne murmured, finishing the Imp's words for him, though Lord Tyrion was not around to comment on it.

At the time, Brienne had been inclined to think the dwarf spoke of the impending blizzard, though now she was beginning to believe that Tyrion Lannister had _not_ been referring to the wretched snowstorm, then. Her frown deepened, creating lines upon her forehead and a deep groove near the edges of her mouth that turned her lips down in a sneer.

The air inside this frigid hall was bloody freezing when she exhaled, she could see cold vapors, puffs of air visible in front of her mouth, and if Brienne were being completely honest with herself, hearing the haphazard swaying of the limbs of the trees outside in the bitter winter cold and her nostrils flared as she swore, she swore, that she could practically smell the snow outside.

Brienne of Tarth furrowed her light blonde brows into a frown and shifted against the wall, keeping her arms tightly folded across her chest.

What she wanted, she supposed, more than anything else, was rest. Though, Fate and the gods, it would seem, were not about to be kind.

Fate, this cruel bastard or bitch, depending on how you looked at it, possessed a name, and its name tonight was none other than Ser Bronn, for he had not gone outside with the rest of the Bolton men to clear the damned doors of the snow. He too had promised the Imp he'd watch Sansa.

A figure nudged beside her, and Brienne felt a light blush speckle along her fair-skinned cheeks. Ser Bronn. Brienne felt her body stiffen instinctively out of a reactionary response whenever she was around men.

She couldn't help it. Save for whenever in Ser Jaimie's company, Brienne had been given every reason to hate men, for all they did was ridicule and mock her at every given opportunity, so why should she be kind?

Ser Bronn gave her a rather wan look before offering a slight dip of his head, a minuscule amount of respect towards 'Brienne the Beauty.'

But it was more than enough for her, she supposed. Lord Tyrion knew that she was sworn allegiance and bended knee under oath to serve the Stark family, and out of respect for his wife and her friendship with Sansa, he treated her with a modicum of respect. And, she supposed, to a lesser extent, Ser Bronn did as well, given the Imp was a friend to the sellsword.

Despite their immense differences and clashes in personality, Brienne returned the nod. But still…anger with Ramsay Bolton, at what the young raven-haired bastard had attempted twice to force himself inside Lady Sansa, boiled deep in Brienne's bloodstream, igniting hot as Wildfire.

"You gonna kill the vicious little cunt, then? Follow your lady's husband's orders? How will you do it? With _that_?" Ser Bronn's first words to her as the man with the reddened, weather-beaten skin glanced downward, where his gaze settled on the knife, which Brienne had taken up the habit of twirling idly between her white-boned knuckles. Boredom.

"I…I'm still working on it. I'm…sorting it out," Brienne heard herself respond in a clipped and hardened tone by way of response, rather curtly.

Ser Bronn snorted and rolled his eyes, biting the wall of his mouth. "Obviously. Your face, Tarth, does not _look_ like the face of someone who is at ease. It's quite plain to the little lord and the lady that you've not 'sorted it out.' The boy frightens you, is that it? Lord Bolton's bastard?"

When Brienne failed to produce an adequate response to the sellsword's question, Ser Bronn took the opportunity of the momentary hesitation in the blonde's movements, in the uncomfortable silence, her wide range of facial expressions. He could practically see the bitch's emotions darting in those sky-blue cerulean orbs of hers, a range of emotions flickering through them and on her face as she contemplated.

Self-loathing at what she was. Who she was, her place in this world, Bronn saw. Disgust. And yes, even the briefest flickers of fear for Bolton.

The look on Brienne of Tarth's face was evident enough for Bronn without the woman even having to draw breath to answer his question.

He snorted and scoffed. "I thought as much. Well. There's no cure for being a cunt, much less the bastard of a man who came from the cunt of another woman. Don't know what it is about those types, but they tend to lack compassion. I'd consider you a _fool_ if you weren't bloody scared of him, wench. There's a _reason_ they call that bastard the Skinflayer, girl. Doesn't matter how bloody taller you are than Ramsay Snow, fucking seven hells," he growled. "The boy would gouge out your own eyeball and then eat it and not even blink a fuckin' eyelid at doing it."

Brienne flinched at the vulgar words of anger and uncertainty dripping from Bronn's tone, though she offered no comment right away. She knew that or at least had an inkling that Bronn's harsh words to describe Ramsay Bolton (however accurate they might be) stemmed from a place of fear.

It didn't escape Bronn's attention how his choice of words sent a tremor down the female knight's spine, though the bitch repressed it.

The wench had spirit. Bronn would give her that much, at least. He could see why Sansa (and now he supposed, Lord Tyrion) liked this one.

Brienne heard herself emanate a tense exhale as she sheathed the knife, making a mental point to sharpen it at her earliest opportunity. "It is… _difficult_ for me to… find an opportune moment to carry out milord's wishes, but if it is what will keep Lady Stark safe, then her wishes will be done."

She had to choose her words carefully, for Sansa had warned her in private upon her arrival in Winterfell that even within the battlement's stone walls, many of Lord Varys' 'little birds' carried word back to the man.

You could not tell in these times who was friend and who was foe, for the shadows housed them both, and could never be too careful.

Brienne blinked as she quickly came to the realization Ser Bronn of the Blackwater had said something to her and she had missed it entirely.

"Pardon me, Ser," Brienne began hesitantly, actively looking away. "I am afraid that I allowed my mind to wander. Would you repeat that?"

Bronn rolled his eyes as if he had expected nothing less from her. "I was merely saying that our little lord received a raven from King's Landing, from Queen Regent Cersei herself. It seems big brother is on his way to visit and ah, what did Tyrion call it? 'Check-up' on him and Lady Stark?"

Brienne startled, biting down hard enough on her tongue that she tasted iron on her palate as crimson, garish blood welled, settling on it.

She stood there, frozen and rooted to the spot as she watched in awe at Bronn of the Blackwater's expression as he silently watched her, no doubt waiting for some kind of reactionary response that Jaime would be soon visiting his brother. She saw nothing short of amusement on his face.

Embarrassment. That damned emotion felt like a weapon of the gods, vicious cunts that they were, capricious as they are. It was a torment for the meek, the ones not bold enough to be immune, and she was not one.

Brienne felt her throat hollow and constrict, and she licked her lips to moisten them, all the while actively averting Ser Bronn's piercing gaze.

"Ser Jaimie's business in his own," she answered in a clipped voice, the edges of her tone hardened. "What does it matter to me why he comes to Winterfell, Ser Bronn?" She could _swear_ she saw Ser Bronn snicker.

Ah, but gods! She had…she had thought she'd been careful!

Ser Bronn sneered, despite his best efforts not to, and there was such a smug look of triumph on his face that she could almost hardly bear it.

Her fingers curled into claws and raked down the thigh of her pants.

"I do believe that is a hint of _affection_ in your voice that I hear for your kingslayer, Brienne the Beauty. You do know that he's wanted to fuck you since the day you brought him back to King's Landing?" he jeered meanly, the edges of his lips curling upwards. He sighed and promptly looked away from Brienne, who was regarding the sellsword as though Ser Bronn had accidentally sprouted horns atop his head. "I can't say I blame him," he chuckled, giving Brienne's figure an appreciative once-over. "Though, ah, what's-his-name? The ginger giant cunt won't be pleased to hear this, will he?" he snorted, and if it was possible, Brienne's blush deepened.

Ser Bronn fell silent. He'd never seen this wench blush before like this. The blonde-haired bitch was always so stoic, in charge, and strangely cold, and to be quite frank, annoyingly self-assured, and overly confident.

So, when the sellsword of Lord Tyrion's saw that pinkness creeping at a snail's pace on Lord Selwyn Tarth's only daughter's cheeks, he knew something more serious at work was afoot than just a 'fond friendship.'

_Friendship, my ass_ , Bronn thought, amused. _He wants to fuck this bitch; he just doesn't want to admit it to himself. I'd fuck her, though_.

Poor Brienne's blush seared through her face and for a solid minute, she thought her face was on fire. She suddenly felt awkward, demure, and coy.

Even going as far as attempting to hide her rosy features by turning her head sharply to the right to the avoid looking Ser Bronn dead in the eye. Ser Bronn waited somewhat impatiently, huffing, for Brienne 'the Beauty' to speak, to say something to break the silence. He had half-expected the female knight to grow fangs and bury her razor-sharp incisors into the skin of his neck, but when it did not come, Ser Bronn groaned and pinched the front of his temples with his thumb and his forefingers.

"If you do not wish for an end to your… _friendship_ with Ser Jaimie," he brought up quietly at the bequest of Lady Sansa (unbeknownst to Brienne), lowering his voice an octave, "then you will need to learn how to reconcile past these differences, no matter what transpired between the two of you these last few months, wench. To work _with_ him. It is essential if you are seeking reconciliation, though why you would want to is _beyond_ me," he growled, rooting his jaw as he felt a strange itching in his chest.

Ser Bronn's scoffed as Brienne's cheeks immediately flushed pink in embarrassment and shame as the blonde-haired, fair-skinned wench promptly looked away and avoided his gaze. "Passion is a mistake, Tarth," Bronn growled angrily, sensing the woman's thoughts. "Look at our little lord. He spends his whole life tryin' to get people to love him, and he'll end up the most popular dead man in all of the Seven fuckin' kingdoms."

Brienne furrowed her blonde brows into a frown and quirked her brows towards Lord Tyrion Lannister's sellsword, saying nothing.

It was not only what the man had just said to her, but the things that he would not say. The tinge of melancholia in his eyes. She could sense that Bronn had a reason for speaking to her of such a topic and given that they had arrived at a point in their conversation where neither could abandon it without there being questions raised that demanded answers, the best she could hope for were that Bronn arrived at his conclusion.

For that, Brienne supposed he could not blame the sellsword, who was admittedly looking bored, as though he'd rather be anywhere but here having this conversation with her, though someone, Brienne suspected, perhaps Lady Sansa or Lord Tyrion, had put him up to it earlier. Bronn was still actively looking away from him, picking at his nails with his knife.

"We are both still considered young, wench, believe it or not. You might feel like giving in to it. Passion. You think it the nature of your…physical attributes, that you'd offer that cunt between your legs to the first man who showed your kindness, but every human suffers it at one point or another. Don't give in. This is my one and only piece of fuckin' sage advice to you." Ser Bronn continued the absentminded preening of his nails.

Brienne gave a curt nod to signal that she was actively listening, for she was, her sharp ears like a wolf's had practically perked up the moment Ser Bronn opened his mouth to say more than two words to the female knight ever since their begrudging partnership this morning following that awkward encounter earlier with the Boltons in the mess hall breaking their fast. "Why tell me this?" Brienne asked, furrowing her brows in a frown.

Ser Bronn paused, running his tongue along the wall of his teeth, studying the bitch's tired features. dark circles underneath his eyes growing darker, more pronounced as the hours laying in wake dragged on at a snail's petty pace.

"Because the undeniable tension between the two of you is proving to be a _problem_ , Tarth. Jaimie fuckin' Lannister is a _complication_ for you the longer this little 'problem' remains unsolved, and like it or not that golden-haired son of a bitch might be the one thing that tames the madness within you and give you the strength to do what has to be done to get rid of the Skinflayer for Lady Sansa, that's your answer to your 'why'," Bronn replied coldly, and Brienne could detect no hint of malice or deceit in his tone, which she found strange. "Women know more about feelings, emotions. _Love_ ," he spat, sounding disgusted and scrunched his nose in revulsion, as though just the thought of the very concept sent a chill of repulsion down his tensed spine. "Men, however, we do not, and we are admittedly much slower to grasp these concepts. Your partner is a… _difficult_ man to please, but he tends to ah…favor the blondes."

There was a beat. A pause. And Ser Bronn fixed her with a pointed look.

"Favor you. He does. I've seen it myself." He snorted. There was no mistaking the flicker of re-ignited hope that now lingered in the woman's light blue eyes, though her face was neutral. Bronn groaned and thumped his forehead with the palm of his hand and dragged his hand down along his cheek in exasperation.

"I never thought I would ever be having a conversation of this caliber in my life, let alone with a _female fuckin' knight_ ," he growled irritably through gritted teeth. "But the little lord believes that I could have provided some assistance, so that is your answer as to you 'why.'" He heaved a tired sigh and glanced at Brienne out of the corner of his eye. "There it is. You're getting to be quite good at this, you know. That _look_."

Brienne frowned. Look. _What_ look? The confusion must have been evident on her face, for she swiveled her head almost lazily to regard Bronn. Bronn snorted and smirked, the corners of his mouth turning up.

"Don't give me that look, Tarth. What I'm about to suggest to you is quite simple. It would solve your little 'love' dilemma, and I suggest you fuckin' follow my advice and take it to heart, Brienne of fucking Tarth."

"My… ' _problem_?'" Brienne asked, feigning ignorance. Was he…was he talking about what she thought he was referring to? Of _him_?

"Yes, because you _see_ ," Ser Bronn began, a sudden wicked glint in his eyes as he leaned forward slightly off the wall to better look Brienne in the eye. "It was bothering me why I couldn't put my finger on it. The reason why you requested relocation to follow Lady Stark here to Winterfell, is because you're holding out on our golden Kingslayer. Someone who, if you were to pursue this, the entire world would laugh at you for, never approve of, given your ah…status," he finished lamely, wildly gesticulating with his hands towards Brienne's physical attributes.

Lord Tyrion's sellsword offered Brienne a dry, sardonic smirk and fell silent. Brienne blanched and felt all the blood drain from her already pale features. _How_?! Bronn of the Blackwater knew, somehow, he _knew_.

Brienne had an inkling upon her first meeting of the sellsword and Lord Tyrion's friend, that Bronn, in his own way, was an intelligent man of sorts, but how he could have known was beyond her ability to understand and comprehend, for Brienne had been under the impression that she'd been careful in regards to the concealing of her feelings for _him_.

But Ser Bronn of the fucking Blackwater did not give Brienne a chance to continue. He clasped his hands together and picked at a loose thread on his jerkin. "I know. It's all too fuckin' obvious, wench. You allowed your sense of duty to Lady Sansa to become tainted. You're plagued by thoughts of Jaimie fuckin' Lannister. I understand, but I'd see you do something about it and take care of this fuckin' Bolton boy before Stark and the little lord suffers because of your lack of action, Tarth…"

Brienne tried to focus on her breathing, but the anxiety bubbled inside her ribcage, and she suddenly felt sick to her stomach.

The goddamned sellsword _knew_. The look of amused satisfaction on the man's face, half shrouded in shadow, was more than enough. Brienne's chest felt hollow and constricted. The panic continued to well deep within the confines of her chest, and she felt the beads of sweat break above her brow and she balled her gloved hands into fists, feeling the sweat trapped beneath her palms as she practically folded them behind her back to quell the shaking. By the gods, she needed an out.

But Ser Bronn of the Blackwater was not about to let the matter drop, for the man leaned forward, resting his cheek in his right hand, eyes glistening with intrigue. "I _knew_ it," he breathed, sounding victorious. "You _love_ him. You've fallen in _love_ with Jaimie fuckin' Lannister, haven't you, wench?" He leaned forward from his spot on the ledge and pinned Brienne of Tarth with his piercing dark stare, rendering Brienne drawn to the man's gaze and unable to tear his gaze away.

To that, Brienne found that she had no apt response to give. Bronn's comment was so out of character from what she knew of the sellsword, which was admittedly very little, and her brain formulated no thoughts other than to register that she was completely shocked.

"I…" she stammered, not sure what else to say in her line of defense. How she was even able to formulate a coherent thought in it of itself was admittedly a miracle right now.

Ser Bronn shifted at the waist slightly to regard her in silence before pinning her down to her spot with his deep, inquisitive gaze and he spoke.

"You're in _love_ with Jaimie Lannister."


	40. Sansa

**A/N : By the Light of the Seven, forgive me for the delay in posting! We had a huge storm here a while back that caused my computer to crash when we lost power, and as a result, I lost ALL of my finished story chapter docs for this little AU GOT fic of mine, and as a result of this accident, have had to start over basically from scratch, so I had to take some time to think about where I wanted the story to go from here, but I hope not to keep my lovely readers waiting so long for the next update, now that I have a few ideas as to where the plot is going for Sanrion and dealing with those damned insufferable Boltons. Anyway, these two have suffered a hell of a lot in my story, so I tried to make this one a little bit light and have some Sanrion fluff, though I feel like it was kind of awkward to write. (Looking at YOU, Ramsay)**

* * *

** Sansa **

Sansa did not know _why_ she and Tyrion had come to this place. Sansa told herself it was because that she wanted Lord Tyrion to see the beauty of the godswoods for himself, that to the best of her knowledge, he had never seen the weirwood tree, never looked upon her beauty, to see the carved faces within the bark, or if he had, he remained uncharacteristically tight-lipped and secretive.

What his motives were, as his husband, she failed to ascertain, but they were here now, though she herself was starting to question her decision to come.

Was it to escape the family of snakes, betrayers, currently residing in her family's home? To get away from Ramsay Bolton's penetrative stare that was powerful enough to burn a hole in the back of her skull, hot as Wildfire itself?

Was _that_ it? Sansa knitted her brows together in a quandary and frowned, swiveling her head slowly and somewhat methodically as she knelt to the ground.

She did not _like_ it that Lord Tyrion was so much shorter than her. She had come to terms with his dwarfism, but that did not mean she had to like it, per se.

Sansa had found that, over the weeks of their marriage to one another and bonding, she liked to be able to look the little lord in those brilliant green eyes of his. His eyes were every hue of the forest, rimmed coolly with moss.

Their lightness reminded Sansa of summertime when the sun-rays warmed each extended leaf. Next to the shade of his hair, that sandy blonde, though it darkened as time here in Winterfell dragged, he was alive in the same way birds are, casually wild. And Sansa decided that there was more than a small part of her that liked it.

That kind of green that pushed its way through the piles of gritty snow to remind you that spring was coming. The kind of green that budded on the prisoners of winter, bringing life back to their branches. That churning, passionate green that the ocean turns during a storm. That color of the forest after it rains.

The color of the tadpoles making ripples in the pond. That green color that brings hope and life no matter what has happened. And looking into those eyes, Sansa could see it. That he, as her husband, loved her. And he knew that she could. For that reason alone, Sansa liked him. _Loved_ him, even, in her own way.

Maybe…maybe _that_ was why they had come, to this holy, sacred place. For some semblance of peace, where it could be the two of them together, as it was supposed to be. And just for the moment, Sansa Stark cared not that Brienne was proving resistant to her and Tyrion's adamant request to 'take care of' Ramsay Bolton.

The Boltons in her home were a liability, one that she, as the last Wolf of Winterfell, could _not_ afford, though, for the moment, she shoved aside all thoughts of Lord Roose and Ramsay Snow, not wanting to think of them for the moment.

Though before Lady Sansa could ponder what to do about those snakes, thinking that Boltons forces would not truly be able to be expelled from her family's home until their current Warden of the North and his bastard son were dealt with, Lord Tyrion spoke up, startling the young redhead out of her thoughts.

"You come here to pray often? I can see why. T'is truly beautiful, milady."

"Mmm." Sansa inclined her head and clasped her fingers together in front of her middle, allowing a lock of auburn hair to tumble in front of her face effectively shielding herself from her lion's gaze, though she could feel his staring.

"You disagree." Lord Tyrion's genuflecting voice held a trace of confusion within, and it was this confusion that caused Sansa to slowly lift her head, jutting out her chin just so to better meet the Imp's gaze. Tyrion's green eyes were glistening as he stared at her, perched on top of the spare cloak he had brought so that his wife would not have to sit on the frozen barren earth and soil her clothes.

Sansa shook her head slightly, indicating to Tyrion that she did not, in fact, disagree with her statement. "I do not, milord. I don't come here to pray," she sighed, emanating a tense exhale through her nose, and cocking her head to the side. She winced and ran her tongue along the top wall of her teeth as she actively averted Tyrion's pained gaze. "Not anymore. Not after…what happened to my family. This is the only place that I can come where people don't talk to me."

"Forgive me, milady. If I have offended you, I did not intend for it to happen. I should…I shall leave you to the gods in peace. May they bring you a small modicum of comfort in life that I, as your lord husband, cannot," Lord Tyrion murmured by way of response, and _this_ time, it was Sansa who was taken aback.

She felt her head practically whiplash so sharply upward, that she winced and let out a pained yelp as she felt an incredible heat spiral its way up her neck as it sent a white-hot jolt of pain up her neck and curved around the shell of her ear. Sansa winced, gingerly rubbing her neck and pursed her lips in a thin line.

Sansa heard the soft shuffling of movement and before Lord Tyrion could stand to turn on the heel of his boot to leave her alone in tranquility and peace, her arm shot out and grabbed onto his shoulder in a firm vice grip, preventing him from leaving. " _Don't_ ," she pleaded, sticking out her bottom lip in a slight pout.

She lifted her chin and met Lord Tyrion's wide, unblinking, and confused green eyes with her own. She glanced down at her hand, her fingers wrapped in an ironclad fist around his arm, though she made no move to relinquish her hold.

"Do not _leave_ me out here _alone_ in these godswoods by _myself_ , Lord Tyrion," Sansa murmured, hardening the edges of her voice just slightly, and there was a hint of steel in Lady Stark's voice that told the Imp that he must listen.

Tyrion blinked, still feeling confused by the sudden shift in Lady Sansa's countenance. Just a moment ago, she had seemed, by his judgment, indifferent to these woods, this holy place, and now, she was seated before him with a look of trepidation on her pale features, beads of sweat glistening on her brow, and he was not sure that he liked the sudden skittishness in her cobalt blue orbs at all, really.

Tyrion's heart was thrumming, pounding loudly against the confines of his chest, that damned stubborn corded muscle of mass and veins that pumped blood within, so fucking audibly loud that he was sure, he was sure, that Sansa heard it.

Though if she did or not, she gave off no inclination as to his own uncertainties. In truth, he was wondering why Lady Sansa had brought him here.

It seemed to take Lady Stark an eternity to find her voice, and when his wife did finally raise her head and look him square in the eye, her tone was softer, much more subdued, and uncertain than before. Sansa breathed in a deep breath and made to say her piece, and Tyrion thought the wisest course of action would be to listen.

She emanated a tense exhale through her nose and glanced down at her hands, which were resting idly in her lap, though Sansa had begun to fidget with them, nervously playing with her pinkish-tipped fingers to keep them warm from the biting, bitter winds of winter that was upon Winterfell in full force now.

"Before I married you, I had thought you to be a vicious, lustful pervert," she began uncertainly, cringing as she spoke the words, and she heard Lord Tyrion give off an audible gasp of surprise and flinched, turning away, though Sansa decided she was not having it as she ground her teeth in annoyance and reached out a hand and firmly cupped the dwarf's chin in her hand, tilting his head slightly upward and forcing the Imp of the Lannister family to meet her gaze.

Tyrion winced, green eyes shimmering with unshed moisture, though he did not blink, and he did not dare avert his gaze from his wife. Their marriage was entirely political, this much was true, though there had been a small part of him that had hoped, perhaps naively and _foolishly_ so, that she would grow to care for him. Though as he looked upon her face, Tyrion wondered if that was naught but a foolish, romantic dream that he had been chasing all along these last few weeks.

But still, Tyrion could not help asking, and did not bother to quell the question as it tumbled unchecked from his lips. "And _now_ , Lady Stark? What do you think of me, _honestly_? You…" He hesitated, biting his cheek. "You may be honest with me, wife. In fact, I would prefer it if you _were_ , Lady Sansa. Tell me."

The second his statement left his lips, the dwarf cursed himself and could no longer contain his barely racing heart or his nearly frantic breaths. Whatever it was that Lady Sansa wanted of him, why she had brought him here to the godswoods, he had not anticipated they would have a conversation of this caliber.

Sansa, meanwhile, pondered over Lord Tyrion's question, suddenly feeling uneasy. She turned her head away and instead focused her attention on the weirwood tree during her process of thinking and allowed her mind to ruminate.

She huffed in frustration and rested her cheek in her fist. People, especially those amongst the Lannisters back in King's Landing, had just openly assumed that her opinion of her little lord husband was that she hated and reviled the Imp.

Though she knew this now not to be the case, however, now that the dwarf himself was asking her the same question, Sansa could not help but feel a bit perturbed. Though it spoke volumes of the man's character that he was asking her, as his wife, for the unvarnished truth, not caring how blunt she would be in answering. Sansa was well aware that there were few people in all of Westeros who could directly ask such a question to her, though the man did not seem afraid.

Perhaps it was because of this, and given the nature that she was, like it or not, the Imp's wife, that caused Sansa to decide to answer the dwarf honestly. More important than that, however, Sansa _wanted_ to answer Tyrion honestly.

Sansa paused for a moment to ponder her best choice of words, finally turning her head back around to regard Lord Tyrion, who, she could tell, was growing impatient by her lack of response, though not one to forget proper edict, was not about to comment on it, for which Sansa felt immensely grateful for.

"You have saved my life now at _least_ a total of four times, Tyrion," she stated quietly, having to tick them all off on her fingers. In truth, it was probably more than four by now, considering the number of times that boy-king Joffrey had her in his sights (May the Seven bless his soul, never!) And now, from Ramsay.

Who admittedly, was still very much a _problem_ in their lives, both he _and_ Lord Roose. Like _flies_ that they could not swat, though they were hoping, in time, with the arrival of Ser Jaimie to Winterfell, it would spark within Brienne of Tarth that ember flame within her chest to give the knight the courage to do the deed.

For she had heard from Lord Tyrion himself how his older brother would get this 'look' in his eyes whenever Brienne was mentioned, and in Brienne, Sansa could see every time the gilded golden-haired knight's name was mentioned, how her entire countenance shifted, and the woman would begin to grow nervous.

It was evident the two harbored unresolved feelings for one another, and it had taken a conversation between herself, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater, and Tyrion to decide to send a raven to King's Landing and request Jaimie come.

It was, admittedly, perhaps not the _best_ course of action that they could have chosen to take, but it was better than sitting here within Winterfell's walls and allowing the Bolton family to continue to resume control over the entire North. Sansa's brows furrowed in a slight frown as she waved away thoughts of both knights for now and forced her mind to refocus her attention on the question that her little lord husband had just posed to her. She sighed and continued speaking.

"It is no easy feat, to go against our former King Joffrey and now, the bastard of Bolton as you have been doing," Sansa began hesitantly, fully aware that Tyrion never once averted his gaze from hers as she spoke. "And that is enough to tell me that, while our marriage may not be what either of us wanted, at first, that there is a small part of you that does care for me, in your own way, milord, but you…"

There was a pause. A beat and Sansa swallowed down hard past the growing lump in her throat as it hollowed and constricted, feeling like it was cutting off much-needed air to her passageways, and she felt dizzy all of a sudden, though she swallowed again and forced herself to continue. Tyrion needed to hear this.

"You will not allow yourself to _feel_ it, milord. It does not take a maester or a scholar to see that you have been burying your pains of life in drink and whores."

Sansa watched as Tyrion flinched at her cold words, knowing they were true, though she did not back down from her resolve. If anything, it strengthened.

And finally, Sansa emanated a tense exhale through her nose as she asked the one question of her husband that she knew she needed an answer to, though there was a larger part of her brain that was terrified to hear the man's response.

"Do you hate me, Tyrion?" She swallowed as she heard the faltering crack and dip in her voice, and for a moment, though she could not bear to look the Imp in the eyes, to see his pained expression and look of rancor within his eyes.

But neither could she bring herself to pull away. So, here she sat, trapped in his gaze, and waiting between these two very different worlds. The world of the godswood, and her little world of Winterfell and the North, waiting for them to reconcile, or at the very least, come to a mutual understanding with each other as husband and wife. Sansa wasn't even aware that she was biting down hard on her bottom lip, hard enough for the delicate skin of her lips to crack and bleed.

At least, not until Tyrion reached up a hand and swatted her own hand away as she started to pick out of it out of restless agitation and utter nervousness.

" _No_ ," Tyrion answered immediately, drifting one of his stout hands to fall overtop of hers as she saw no other choice but to rest them uncomfortably in her lap. "I could never _hate_ you, Lady Sansa. I hope that you do not hate me, either."

There was another beat. A pause in his wife's response was admittedly nothing that Lord Tyrion could have hoped for, but then— "How, milord?" Sansa breathed, her cobalt blue eyes wide and round as she desperately searched the Imp's for any semblance of the honest truth, though she knew he was not lying.

Lord Tyrion had never once led her astray, forced her to do anything that she was not comfortable with, though their combined efforts over the last several weeks of being trapped within Winterfell's wall to procure a child growing within Sansa's belly were proving for naught, and Sansa knew that Tyrion was troubled.

That he thought himself impotent, that something was wrong, though what that thing or _things_ might be, neither of them knew, and neither one had wanted to seek Maester Qyburn's council on how to rectify their growing little problem.

"How what?" Tyrion asked, blinking at Sansa, feeling dazed and confused as to how their conversation had ended up shifting and taking this sudden turn.

Sansa made a noise that sounded like a sniff and shook her head in disappointment, a lock of wavy auburn hair bouncing slightly as she did so. "How could I _possibly_ hate you, Lord Tyrion?" The very concept of such an idea seemed to greatly disturb Sansa Stark, for her already pale face worsened as what little color was left within her rosy cheeks drained and she looked stricken suddenly, her lips agape in shock and she looked as though the dwarf had slapped her. "Because you, out of all of the Lannisters, were truly the best of them? After the horrible way that I treated you when I—when we first met, you _still_ treat me as though I possess the status of a Queen when I do not _deserve_ your affection. Why is it that you believe yourself to be at fault, milord? You. Are. Not. Tyrion."

Tyrion ran his tongue over the wall of his teeth as he struggled to think of an apt response to the question his wife had just posted to him, but Sansa was not quite finished yet, and as a result, he had no time to formulate his next sentence.

"Aye, but husband, you are a difficult man to hate. I see that now. You have _saved_ my life, more times than I can count now or even care to admit. You are a _good_ man," she murmured, glancing down at their now-joined hands as they rested in her lap. " _Kind_ , even to those like _me_ who do not _deserve_ your unfailing kindness nor your mercy," Sansa scowled, a dark look crossing over her features, and Tyrion knew without even having to ask her that she was thinking of Ramsay. "Even when you do not have to be, and that is the thing that makes you beautiful."

Sansa shook her head and sighed, and when she lifted her chin, Tyrion was surprised to see the beginnings of tears prick at the corners of her eyes, stinging and blurring her vision. "But you are incapable of seeing yourself as _I_ do, milord."

Stillness filled the air between them as Lord Tyrion could not help but stare at his wife, at an utter loss, perhaps for the first time in his entire life, his mouth open, though nothing was coming to him as he struggled to think of something—anything—to say in response to his wife's statement. Never once in his life had someone spoken to him in this regard, not even Shae had said such things to him.

Tyrion raised his eyebrows at Sansa, they shot so far up onto his forehead that they almost disappeared into his mop of curly light brown hair. His first natural instinct was to brush off Lady Stark's remarks and deny everything she had just said, but the darkening look resting in Sansa's cobalt blue orbs as they darkened in color, almost cerulean in color the more upset that she got over this, warned him against it.

In fact, in the months now that they had been husband and wife, Tyrion could not for the life of him recall ever seeing such a strange look on Lady Sansa's face. Intermingling on her features was a potent mixture of sadness, uneasiness, sincerity, and…something else, a foreign emotion he didn't know what she might be feeling at this moment, here with him, under the weirwood tree.

If he was being completely honest with himself, it both frightened him and held him captivated and enthralled by her gaze, unable to tear his gaze away.

"You have sad eyes, milord," Sansa pointed out, a pained expression on her face. "You see yourself as immoral, something not right because of… _this_ ," she murmured, gesturing to her husband's short stature with a curt wave of her hand. "This…horrible anger that you feel, you keep it bottled within, this coldness that is not like you at all. It's all directed towards yourself, and this world that both of us live in that treats neither one of us as fairly as we deserve. You do not care for yourself."

Tyrion looked away and lowered his head in shame as her words hit him like a chunk of ice or a dagger pierced straight through his heart, twisting in his chest as a fiery heat. Sansa bit her lip, able to tell that her little lion lord husband did not want to accept her words as fact, though he must. Sansa heaved a small sigh of frustration as the young woman realized what she'd just said wasn't enough.

She dared to scoot a fraction of an inch closer on the spare cloak Lord Tyrion had brought, and if she were any closer by this point in their conversation, Sansa would practically be straddling the Imp's lap. She was briefly tempted to.

"You feel powerless, husband," Sansa spoke, raking her fingers through his mop of curly hair, and she bit the inside wall of her cheek as a shudder of…something traveled down Tyrion's spine, though he made no effort to remove her hand. Sansa wasn't at all surprised when his hands gripped onto her waist tightly, though the glower he shot her suggested he looked like a defensive caged beast ready to sink its claws into her flesh if she dared to cross this boundary did.

"You punish yourself for your condition, milord," she whispered, reaching up a hand to card back a stray curl that had fallen in front of his eyes. "You still do. But you cannot help that you were born a dwarf. As such, it makes you feel as though you lack purpose in this world. But we _all_ feel like this at times, husband."

"Like what?" Lord Tyrion asked, furrowing his brows into a small frown.

Sansa's voice had faltered halfway through her speech to her little lord husband and trailed off, because she had soon come to the realization that she had, in fact, been speaking of herself. Quick to recognize her sudden mistake, Sansa turned away and sighed. They were much alike.

They both felt the same things. Wanted the same thing. At least, she hoped that they did. Sansa emanated a tense exhale through her nose and swiveled her head back around to regard Tyrion, whose light green eyes had darkened with such intensity, glistening with some unspoken emotion that she wasn't sure what he might be feeling at this moment. "You have…you've been burying your pain, Tyrion," Sansa whispered by way of responding to his question.

"Pain?" Lord Tyrion repeated, sounding as though he could not believe her words. "Who said I was in pain?" Lord Tyrion spoke again, his voice solemn.

Sansa merely proceeded to say nothing and instead offered a sad smile and rested her cheek in her hand. "You did not have to say it. Your expression speaks for yourself. You have sad eyes." A pause in response was nothing she could have hoped for, as Tyrion closed his eyes as if he were fighting back against something terrible and losing. They stayed closed as if he could not bear to look upon her.

Sansa felt her brows knit together in confusion as she processed the hurt she felt inside at the man's silence to her what should have been an obvious statement, but could not understand for the life of her why she felt so disappointed by his sullenness. "Sansa…" murmured Tyrion, his fingers on her waist tightening slightly, sending a spiraling heat through Sansa's system. "After…after what happened in the library, then…you must know that I…" His voice trailed off in silence.

Sansa felt her light blue eyes widen in shock as she looked up, Tyrion still continuing to keep his eyes closed and his jaw clenched shut with the effort to restrain himself from doing… _something_ , though what that was, she didn't know.

Was he…was he talking about what she thought he was talking about? "Know what?" she whispered hoarsely in response, and Tyrion was no _fool_.

Far from it. He was perhaps one of the cleverest men in all of Westeros that Sansa had ever met. He knew Sansa was not ignorant of the fact that ever since that moment in the library, there had been that look exchanged between the two of them, though no words were spoken, and it was then that something had changed. And all the anxiety Tyrion had felt for the past several weeks had inevitably led up to this moment, the two of them alone, and uninterrupted for a change.

Tyrion's gaze drifted down towards her lips, thinking that they had never been this close before, and as he allowed his wretched sight to ghost across the features of his wife's pale face, he realized tonight Lady Sansa Stark wore a different expression, and it hit him square in the chest, this painful realization that Tyrion soon recognized that his greatest fear had perhaps come true. She _did_ feel the unimaginable foreign thing that had churned inside of him now for weeks.

Tyrion wasn't even if sure if either of them knew what it was, but both of them knew they were broaching the point of no return, and neither seemed compelled to walk away first. "Don't you know, Sansa? Don't you?" he tried again, lowering his voice, and deepening it slightly so that only his wife could hear.

"K—know what?" stammered Sansa, suddenly, it was she who was at a loss for words. Was…was he talking about what she _thought_ that he was referring to?

Though whatever was on Tyrion's mind, Sansa did not get a chance to follow up with an apt response, as, before her courage failed her, she made up her mind. "Tyrion?" Sansa spoke his name with such gentle grace, her voice barely above a whisper, and just the sound of his name on her tongue caused his heart to thrum erratically against his chest, and he swallowed down hard past the growing lump in his throat, and he looked up briefly, only to accidentally brush his nose against hers. He could swear he could see his incredulous expression reflected in the young woman's glistening sky-blue orbs, and it felt like he was going to implode if he did not do something about this problem soon. He knew she didn't care for him back, but he couldn't resist.

He leaned in a little closer, their foreheads touching. Dear Light of the Seven above help him, he couldn't fight against the thoughts that were going through him. Her very smell was flooding his senses now... But he had no chance to ponder over this before Sansa Stark promptly closed her eyes and pressed her lips against his. Tyrion froze at the unexpected intimacy, the line she had just crossed, his light green eyes wide and unblinking in shock.

He completely expected Sansa to recoil away in disgust and explain away the slip in her balance at any second.

But that second for him never came.

She leaned up and captured his mouth without warning, giving him virtually no time to think or react, but they fit so perfectly together, it was like they were made for one another, and he could swear he heard the Lion within the confines of his chest practically purring in pleasure, and Tyrion could not help but let out a sigh, thinking that he really did care for her. whenever he made love to her, sweat gleaming on her skin, her delicate hands curled into fists and her eyes screwed tight.

He loved the way that his wife was tight and hot and drew him in, the way that her mouth was soft as she panted for breath.

Slowly, he ran his hands down her glorious body. Her skin was so flawless, smooth, and perfect, soft on her hips as he spread her thighs with his lean fingers and the first moan escaped her lips, the sound half-muffled. He lowered his lips to hers, capturing her mouth in a greedy kiss.

"It's been a few days, Lady Stark," he whispered devilishly, a smirk on his handsome features. "I've missed our time together, love," he said tenderly and quietly. His wife opened his mouth to speak, but he stopped her. "Shush, don't speak, just let me..." he commanded, raising a gentle finger to her lips, shushing her. He continued with his efforts to please her, leaving a gentle trail of kisses down her neck and to her collarbones, hearing her whimpers and feeling her body shift beneath his. Sansa's breathing became uneven, cracking, and she jerked forward as she climaxed, the stars becoming novae in her eyes.

His wife twitched slightly as he drew away, rolling her head to one side, exposing the curve of her neck, the beautiful shell of her ear, shuddering as he gently nipped her earlobe and whispered promises to her, promises of what's to come in their moment. Her thighs were still parted beneath him as he entered her, thrusting greedily, her body wrapped around his shaft, all heat, and moisture.

Sansa made a muted little sound in the back of her throat but this time, just this time, he does not listen as he claimed her for himself and himself alone, his ire and wrath that had been pent up towards Bolton's treatment of his wife, coming out in the form of aggression as he nipped, bit, and thrust into his wife harder than he meant to, hearing her small cries of pain, though this did not slow his movements, his hands wound tightly on the edges of the cloak before drifting to the back of her head, finding purchase in her hair, his fingers entangled in her auburn wavy tresses, his hair falling in his eyes and shading everything. His wife panted for breath, her breasts hitching with each breath she drew in, her body reacting to his touch, moving in sync with each of his thrusts. He cried out as he peaked as he felt his essence, his seed pour into her and pulsate as he finished in shallow half thrusts, hoping that _this_ time would be the time.

The possibility of a Lannister son growing within his wife's belly was perhaps the _only_ thing that would for _now_ , keep fucking Ramsay Bolton away from his wife.

For a moment, he stayed over his wife, his arms trembling slightly, then drew away and glanced down to see their bodies mingling in fluid form upon the cloak he'd laid on top of the frigid winter ground to protect it from their time together. He raked his hand down her thigh gently, feeling her tremble as his touch left a static frenzy in their wake, as he leaned down and kissed her gently.

"Love me, husband?" she whispered, a lascivious smile that he can't help but smile back at and return lovingly.

"Always," he promised lovingly, leaning down to kiss her again. "I wouldn't have it any other way. I'll always love you. Until the world ends, and after." And that, Sansa, supposed…that was good enough for her.

As the pair straightened their clothes and attempted to brush off the stray leaves and flecks of snow from their shoulders in a vain attempt to draw prying eyes away from the Bolton soldiers and other interested parties back at the castle, as Sansa allowed Lord Tyrion to escort her back to Winterfell, the two were so engrossed in conversation amongst themselves that they failed to notice a shadow of movement dart beneath the trees.

Both parties, it should be noted, were unaware of Ramsay Bolton lingering in the shadows…


	41. Ramsay

** Ramsay **

He thought he would quite like to _strangle_ the Imp. The broken bastard of Bolton had throughout his life gotten used to life's disappointments, his treatment at the hands of lord Father the most prevalent, but this? Oh, _no_. This was ten times _worse_. Bolton ground his teeth in anger, clenching and locking his jaw as waves of pure rancor washed over his trembling body in waves, one right after the other, and each worse than the last, molars grinding.

His fingernails, blackened and caked with dried blood, mud, and tree bark, were practically whittled down to mere nubs, by the repetitive motion of repeatedly digging his nails into the bark of the godswood weirwood tree. Ramsay Bolton considered himself an opportunist by nature, plotting with Father over several small council meetings on the best manner intended to overthrow the false self-proclaimed king, Stannis Baratheon, and the rumors of a mysterious she-stranger, a red witch, that he was rumored to be in league with, she who honored and served the Lord of Light, burning enemies alive.

_Take the Imp. Burn him alive on the stake, throw the ashes to the wind, let him disappear_ , he thought angrily through gritted teeth, feeling a sheen of perspiration start to throng upon his forehead, though he made no move to wipe the beads of sweat off his browbone as he made his way back to his study.

Back and forth. Back and forth the bastard went, his boots practically creating indentations of the markings his footsteps made beneath his black leather boots. He seized and tugged on tufts of his thick dark hair, pulling on them until the roots practically screamed in protest for Ramsay to stop this.

"This accomplishes _nothing_ ," he growled angrily. He could not stop thinking of the She-Wolf, _his_ bride rutting like a—a _sow_ with that—that fucking _Imp_ , that man who was _less_ than _half_ a man and a demonic accursed _wretch_. Why could he not shake the scent of pinewood and eucalyptus from his nostrils before Ramsay came to the immediate realization that it was her _hair_.

How he had spied on the two of them from behind the trees, meditating on what he was witnessing, wishing Death upon the Imp, each vision within the confines of his twisted psyche more violent and brutal than the last one he saw.

The Stark bitch should be with _him_. _He_ could provide for her, much better than the Imp ever could. Why she seemed to fawn over him like a lovesick little girl with fanciful dreams of knights and _love_ , that fairytale emotion that did not exist, remained an enigma to him, one that had plagued his thoughts ever since the last Sansa Stark had dared to set foot back on familiar soil once more.

Ramsay sighed, leaning his back against the cold stone wall, pinching at the front of his temples with his thumb and forefinger, letting out a haggard sigh.

Seven fucking hells, gods, but if only sleep would come for him, but it was not meant to be. For visions of the two of them fucking like rabbits refused to leave his mind. Her skin was taunting him in ways he'd not thought possible.

The sweet smell of pinewood and eucalyptus and honeysuckle brought to his mind thoughts of autumn, of a season much more tolerable than fucking _winter_. Everywhere within Winterfell's walls that he looked, Bolton saw _her_.

_His_ Sansa. It was becoming harder and harder to concentrate on the fact that Baratheon and his men were drawing nearer, never mind the fact that the man's fucking armies would arrive within a mere matter of weeks. He thought of _her_.

Ramsay squeezed his eyes tightly shut, unable to think of anything else but satiating his desires. He inwardly flinched at imagining their wedding night as he closed his eyes, feeling Sansa Stark's warmth pulsate throughout his body.

The imagined touch of Stark was _searing_ , and it was growing harder for Ramsay to maintain his usual stony exterior, giving Father was set to arrive any minute, no doubt to check on their progress of preparing a team of men for a hunt. Winterfell's staff would need enough provisions to last at least two weeks.

And after that…Stannis's blackened heart would meet the end of his blade.

Not to mention her nails digging into the sensitive flesh of his back and behind his ears, imagining her nails in other places, leaving hard and soft trailing down his bare torso, his back, near his pelvis, and holy seven fucking _hells_!

Ramsay felt his eyes fling wide open as his wolfish hearing perked up at hearing a noise in his library, and he froze, the sweat gathering on his brow starting to slick down his temples. He had…he had thought himself to be alone.

Father usually announced his presence, so who in the seven fucking _hells_ …? Ramsay turned on the heel of his boot, fist raised in mid-air prepared to strike whomever it was lurking about the shadows of the study, near one of the shelves, though he felt his curled fist loosen and slacken at the sight of _her_.

"Lady Stark," Ramsay heard himself say, though he lacked the propensity to smile at the auburn-haired pale beauty who now plagued his thoughts. "How…kind of you to visit me in my loneliness," he said. _I see you, little dove._ Like a panther stalking its prey, the broken bastard of Roose Bolton was quick to close off the gap of space between himself and Sansa, and his gaze drifted down at the book clutched tightly against her supple, rising chest.

Her breaths were coming in short, spurting gasps and Sansa had trouble looking him in the eyes. Though if he was not mistaken, something within Sansa shifted as she slowly, almost methodically swiveled his head to meet her gaze and answered slowly but surely. "I did not come here for _you_ , Ramsay."

" _No_?" he challenged, sticking out his lip in a bottom pout, feigning offense. He felt the edges of his thin lips turn upwards into a truly twisted, warped smirk. "But…we are to be _married_ , Lady Sansa. Do you not think we should get to know each other a little bit better, milady? That typically involves looking at one another from time to time, as well as… _other_ things," he murmured, one of his hands coming to grip up painfully tight on her waist.

Ramsay stared, feeling somewhat stupefied as Sansa's lips parted open to speak. She stood unstirred and stock still in front of him, and Bolton could tell the fair-skinned auburn beauty was trying not to shiver while waiting with bated breath and gritted teeth for this little encounter of theirs to be over with.

He could tell that Sansa wanted whatever 'this' was, to be over with quickly, for her to receive whatever mocking words of scorn he, as her lord, wished for her to accept as fact, before retiring to her chambers in a promptly swift way.

Ramsay blinked, surprised at the sudden shift with Sansa Stark, who had, in times past, cowered before him like a frightened dove, like a caged little bird, restless, though her spirit teeming with life. Well. He would set this bird _free_.

He watched as a shiver of something unidentifiable ran down her spine, though whether or not his intimidation was the cause of whatever it was this little dove was feeling, he did not know, nor did he really care. He wanted _her_.

Ramsay inhaled a somewhat shaking and tense breath, his fingers gripping even tighter on the velvet fabric of her gown, and he heard Sansa let out a gasp.

_Good_. He almost sneered. She _ought_ to be scared. Though first, there was the troublesome matter to address with her what he had witnessed earlier, though without necessarily letting on that he had _spied_ upon the two of them.

Ramsay took a moment and glanced out the window of his study. Winter was upon them already, which meant that here in the North, it was getting darker and darker by the day, so this late at night, the castle was by now shrouded in darkness and the grounds covered in frost, and bitterly, frigid cold.

He slowly swiveled his head back towards Sansa and regarded his bride. If she felt any guilt about what had happened earlier between herself and the Imp, it was now long gone as she stood in front of Ramsay, unmoved and stoic.

Though, in hindsight, why _should_ she? For she had every inclination to believe that the two of them had been alone underneath the weirwood in the godswood. If Lady Sansa had not been so preoccupied with trying to deduce in her mind exactly how she thought their conversation was to proceed, she would have realized that Ramsay Bolton in her presence was, in fact, _nervous_.

The only thing that Lady Stark had correctly assumed from Ramsay's strange behavior was that he was angry with her, and still, unbeknownst to her, quite drunk from the Dornish wine that he'd consumed after being forced to watch the Imp with his bride. He had not bothered to change his clothes, much less ensure his appearance was well suited enough for the likes of a fair maiden.

After spending what felt like several minutes in excruciating silence, while Ramsay raged war within the confines of his mind whilst trying to convince himself that he neither looked a mess nor smelled of alcohol, though he was sure that Sansa could smell the wine spirits on his breath, for he could, at least.

Ramsay steadily lifted his chin to look Sansa squarely in those haunting cobalt orbs of hers, his irritable expression still very much intact, though she knew naught the reason for his nervousness. He was aware of how tired he looked, for he himself was sleepless and had caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror but a moment ago, the skin underneath his eyes dark and sallow, his cheekbones gaunt and hollow as if he had not slept an ounce the last few nights.

This, at least, if nothing else, he could tell he had in common with her. He turned his head to the side once to cough once to clear his throat and turned back towards Sansa, who was still regarding him with that infuriating icy, listless stare that for a moment, Ramsay was quite certain matched his own.

"I don't need to explain to you, Lady Stark, why your behavior tonight was extremely _foolish_ ," he began, feeling somewhat awkward. "You're intelligent enough to know," Bolton growled, feeling an inexplicable warmth pulsate through his chest and in between his legs, causing an overwhelming ache to develop as fiery in his groin the longer he continued to stare at Sansa like this.

Sansa blinked owlishly at Ramsay, not quite getting where his rancor was originating from. Sensing that the young auburn-haired She-Wolf was confused, Ramsay practically growled with the effort to restrain himself and continued. "You and the _Imp_ ," he snarled, baring sharp incisors as he practically foamed at the mouth like a mad beast, like one of his hounds.

Ramsay watched as her face paled and her lips parted open slightly in shock.

If Sansa was surprised to learn the broken bastard of Roose Bolton had been spying on her and Tyrion, she hid it well, for her mouth promptly closed and pursed into a thin, rigid line and she angrily flicked her auburn hair back over her shoulder, furrowing her delicate eyebrows into a frown, a muscle in her jaw twitching, and he swore her gray eyes became as the last ashes of a dying fire.

"You've been _spying_ on us," she breathed, though even as she looked at him, Ramsay could tell she was not at all that surprised, possibly having expected such lewd behavior from a man with violent tendencies. "Tell me, milord Bolton," Sansa murmured, still clutching the book close to her chest, and yanking her wrist out of Ramsay's grasp, turning away, and making to head towards the study's exit. "When you wake at night, from what little sleep you _do_ get, are you…painfully aroused? Confused, perhaps? Do you _touch_ yourself in the darkness? Do you scream my name when you peak, _beast_?" she spat, sounding disgusted, and she refused to look at Ramsay, for she would have seen the outraged and utterly stunned expression on the man's ashen face as she strode towards the door, one hand on the doorway to steady herself, though Sansa Stark risked one last glance over her shoulder, and Ramsay flinched as he swore there was a look of pity intermingled with disgust as her cobalt blue eyes met his, and there was such anger there, for a moment, he saw the shadow of the She-Wolf that he knew Stark to be flit across her face.

"Well," she began, a lowly growl beginning from deep within her chest, "I hope that you enjoy it, Ramsay, because that is the _closest_ you will ever get to me. You will _not_ touch me or milord husband, hear me, _bastard_ , and if the day should come where you are ever foolish enough to _try_ , you might find your head soon removed from your neck. And I'd be only too glad to watch for the torment you have put not only me through, but Theon and Lord Tyrion as well. Think about that the next time you decide to _spy_ on us, milord," she snapped.

Ramsay was left stunned, at a total loss for words. Words left the man, and he did not flinch at the overall crassness and abrasiveness of Sansa's question. Though he was perturbed by how correct the She-Wolf actually was.

For a second, as he stared after the space where Sansa Stark had stood moments ago, listening to the footfalls of her boot heels clicking on the stone floor as she vacated Winterfell's study and no doubt made to head back to the sanctity of her own chambers, Ramsay began to grow suspicious.

"How could she know?" Ramsay could not dare to bring himself to look into those ocean-blue orbs of hers that reminded him of the old tales of the sirens at sea from the smallfolk he would hear sometimes. He was not about to let Sansa Stark win, give anything away. He was a Bolton, and Bolton men did not kowtow to _women_.

Her very presence within Winterfell's walls was an increasing obstacle, a problem that continued to grow at a vast, rapidly alarming pace, where soon she and the wretch both became impossible to ignore and escape from in peace.

Even now, as he continued to gape at the space where sweet Sansa had stood but a moment ago, Bolton could feel the hardened walls of stone around his heart start to crumble. It threatened to tear down that which he desperately needed to keep up. But Ramsay could not—would not—ever let the Stark cunt know that his darkest thoughts over the last few days were because of her. It was just too incredibly easy to put the blame on her and her alone, the witch.

_Light of the Seven, damn her. How dare she accuse me of this? How dare she judge me when it's all HER FAULT_! Ramsay screamed inwardly, fuming.

He continued his agitated, restless pacing. Back and forth. Back and forth, clenching, and unclenching his fists. He glanced towards the door, though his wolfish sense of hearing and smell could not detect lord Father approaching.

It was becoming harder and harder to concentrate, Ramsay's mind drifting to that notorious moment, and Lady Sansa's closeness and her intoxicating scent that brought to his mind thoughts of autumn weren't helping his matters either.

Then it suddenly hit him. Her scent, honeysuckle, pinewood, and eucalyptus never left him. It practically defaulted into his olfactory nerves. He felt a shiver travel down his spine by the realization that the Stark bitch was _haunting_ him.

Plaguing his thoughts like a disease, until he could think of nothing else but satiating himself to her, to give himself completely to the incredible heat that Stark gave off, to pour all that he was into Stark's belly until she sired a little Wolf-cub with brilliant cold glacier eyes, just like hers and his.

His eyes flung open, and he cursed himself as a bead of sweat dripped down his temple. Though his exterior was stoic, and Sansa Stark was no longer in the same room as he, those bewitching orbs of hers somehow held an unpleasant truth that Ramsay Bolton was not prepared to admit outright to anyone. Ever.

Ramsay Bolton feared and truly believed that, unless something could be done to rectify the little problem that was the Imp, that Stark was his annihilation. He ground his teeth and locked his molars, tighter than rigor mortis. _She's slowly consuming me, Sansa Stark is, hell-bent on destroying me_.

"How—how _dare_ she?! Who in the seven fucking _hells_ does she think she _is_? A goddess? A saint? A witch? She—she cannot _talk_ to me like this!" Bolton growled through gritted teeth, unshed moisture glistening in his cerulean darkening blue orbs, though they were not of tears, per se, but rather, unbridled rage. Ramsay growled in frustration and swung out an arm, only for the sleeve of his crimson undershirt underneath his black jerkin to catch on a nearby clay vase and send it plummeting to the floor, where it shattered into a thousand pieces. "What, does she think that accursed little wretch _loves_ her? She should not believe in it, and if Stark does, the bitch is even stupider than I thought. _Love_ is _stupid_ and it does not exist…she'll learn…" he snarled through his teeth, fully aware he was raving and snarling like a rabid dog foaming at the mouth. "I'll _make_ her see," he breathed, feeling his throat hollow, constricting.

This only succeeded in furthering his ire, and in his wild frenzy of emotions, thoughts of her that refused to part from his head, and her monstrous betrayal at laying with the Imp rather than _him_ , he kicked out viciously at a shard of the broken vase with the edge of his black boot and sent it flying across the room, only for the shard to hit the opposing wall and shatter, at the precise moment the slightest flutter of movement caught Ramsay's eye.

When he saw whom it was, his already wide eyes widened even further if possible, and he immediately bent his right knee and knelt at his lord Father's side as Lord Roose entered the study, an impassive expression on his bone-white face, his eye, slit-like pupils narrowed in suspicion.

How could he not have sensed Father?! He was silent. _Silent_. Ramsay murmured a half-hearted apology and continued to bend the knee as the sound of the creaking floorboards caused by his father's boots as his footfalls grew closer, and soon Lord Roose was standing directly in front of his bastard son himself.

"I assume, Ramsay, that you have a _good_ reason for summoning me here in the middle night, for I have been plagued by the matter of Stannis Baratheon's life as his armies draw nearer and nearer to Winterfell's gates with each passing day." Lord Roose's voice echoed in all corners of the decrepit living room. "I need not remind you that I am in the mood for a _flaying_ if you do not provide me with an adequate reason as to why you have summoned—"

"Sansa Stark." Ramsay flinched as his voice came out as a hoarse croak, and he bit the inside wall of his cheek as Father's face continued to remain impassive, yet he could not be certain, though he would swear he saw the briefest flickers of anger flit through Father's metallic, cold, glistening gray eyes.

A thick heavy silence befell the room and Ramsay licked his lips nervously. He could not recall a time in his life when he asked of lord Father anything, so for this to occur was…something _new_. Ramsay let out a hiss, waiting. "I see. I see," Lord Roose repeated slowly, his voice listless, and then Roose proceeded to throw back his head and laugh, and every chortle of his lord Father's lungs only succeeded in making Ramsay's eyes wider.

It was…not something that happened often, and Ramsay barely heard himself as he drew in a sharp breath that pained his lungs and waited with bated breath as his father's unexpected fit of cold laughter slowly ceased and fell silent.

"It takes no scholar for me to see that the girl has been refusing you again, Ramsay," Lord Roose began, fidgeting with his fingers as he strode towards the rectangular wooden table, wherein upon lay stretched a map, planned routes of where Bolton and his men thought Stannis Baratheon's men most apt to strike.

Ramsay said nothing. He could not think of an apt response to say, so for the moment, he favored silence as the favorable response to Roose's goading.

Lord Roose made an obvious show out of picking up one of the paperweights on the map and fiddling with it, feeling its weight, shifting it between his fingers, all the while casting a suspicious, wearied glance at his bastard. It was true that Lady Sansa Stark was their key to maintaining the North, though the problematic issue that was her little lion lord husband caused Roose to muddle in quandary over how exactly to remedy this, and make it look an accident, where he and his son would have no ties to the Imp's murder.

Poison at first, he supposed, though that could easily be traced back to one of the measters, and he was not about to have Maester Wolkan hang for a crime he did not commit. Though the man was a fool, the simple fact of the matter remained that, until Maester Qyburn had dared to step foot through those doors again, the maester remained one of the most skilled in medicines and herbs that there was, so that matter of disposing of Lord Tyrion Lannister was off the table.

_A hunt_? He pondered, biting the walls of his cheek. It would be easy enough for Ramsay to set one of his hell hounds loose on the dwarf, though given the man's short stature, he would be less than half a snack for the beasts.

Lord Roose furrowed his graying brows and relinquished his grip on the paperweight, setting it back on its placeholder on the map from whence it came, and folded his slender, spindly fingers together and turned to Ramsay.

He decided that as long as the Imp was taken care of, it mattered not how it happened. If they lost Sansa Stark, then their stronghold and claim to the North would fall as well, and that was simply something they could not afford.

Perhaps, then, if he were to allow his broken bastard to take matters into his own hands, then perhaps it would quell the boy's insatiable thirst for bloodlust and allow his mind to return to more important matters at hand.

"Very well." Roose relented at last, and Ramsay exhaled a tense but relieved breath through his nose, his hands clasped behind his back, and his son dipped his head in acknowledgment, though he offered up no verbal response.

Roose clasped his long and slender fingers together. Unlike others, the Warden of the North's fingers were bone-white, thin, shaped by prominent phalange bones and knotted where the joints curled around the ends of each long and short bone in his ghostly pale hands. There was no muscle tone or fat definition and Ramsay inexplicably found his gaze drawn to it.

"I grant you permission to do what you must, Ramsay, and be prudent about it, if it will alleviate this little _problem_ of yours and grant me back the honor of having your full and undivided attention. Do I make myself clear? Do not make me say it again. _Kill_ the Imp, you will marry the Stark girl, keep her as your plaything, marry her, it matters to me not what you do, Ramsay," Lord Roose sighed, sounding almost exasperated as he pinched the bridge of what should have been his nose, where it used to be once, with his spindly slender thumb and forefinger. "But I need not remind that this—this _girl_ and siring an heir is not your only responsibility. If you should—"

"—Crystal clear, milord. I shall not fail you." Ramsay responded in kind to his Father's request by bending the right knee and kneeling in front of his lord Father once more, before Lord Roose gave him a curt nod of his head, before turning on the heel of his boot and leaving, grumbling audibly under his breath.

Ramsay emanated a tense exhale through his nose as he rose to his feet and strode towards the study's window, glancing out at the woods that bordered the edge of Winterfell's estate. He clenched his jaw shut as he pondered what to do about the Imp.

And then, a truly terrible and horrible idea began to take root in his mind.


	42. Sansa

** A/N: Some Sanrion smut for you to break up the Bolton's schemes. XD **

* * *

** SANSA **

Sansa glanced down at the book she had taken from Winterfell's study with a strange sense of unease brooding within the confines of her chest. A book of the knights and kings of old of Westeros, one of the last known copies rumored in existence itself.

It might have seemed a little illogical to select a book that she had read before, as opposed to countless other titles that rested within the shelves of the study, but perhaps there was something within her heart that wanted something familiar, something that reminded her of home. Or at least, Winterfell before the Bolton's lay claim to it.

Her little lord husband had attempted to gift King Joffrey a copy of this exact same book on his wedding day, only for the man to run the blade of his sword through the book's leatherbound cover, thereby effectively destroying it. Tyrion had lamented and practically mourned its loss as he would have thought of an old friend, and she hoped by surprising him with it, it would put a smile upon his face once more.

At first, Sansa had taken the book out of pure interest, wanting to have Tyrion read it to her during the witching hours when all else were asleep soundly in their beds and the two were awake, though now she felt as though she had taken it out of a sense of duty to him. Thus, now she found herself in a bit of a dilemma, to keep this book safe from Bolton, who, at the time of their initial encounter in the study, could not seem to pretend to care what book she was in the midst of removing from his library, but…

But still. Something within her harbored a twinge of caution towards Bolton, and she knew her fear and trepidation towards Lord Roose's bastard came from all of the horrible stories she had been told about Ramsay, the things he had done to Theon, keeping him all along, torturing him to the point where nothing existed but a broken shell of a man who could not even bear to go by his former name anymore, and she let herself sigh in an unrestrained fashion as she climbed the stairwell to their chambers and gingerly closed the door behind her. She looked to the left and the right.

Sansa paused for a moment, lingering near the door, finding Tyrion to be as still and unmoved in his chair, and if he had not flitted his gaze upward to meet hers, she'd have thought her lord husband carved onto that chair like a statue of the finest marble.

She found him there, seated against the cold stone wall of their chambers, a chair pushed back against the wall as far as it possibly could, a chalice of wine in his hands.

As usual. Sansa bit the inside wall of her cheek and stifled a smile. "My lion," she murmured, holding out the leather-bound copy of the book of Westeros's kings.

He took it wordlessly, a rather stupefied expression on his handsome but scarred face, though Sansa did not give him a chance to speak as she closed off what little gap of space remained between the two of them and flippantly pressed her lips against his.

She broke apart first, each other just staring at the other for a few minutes in silence. "You—you should not have, Sansa," he murmured, though his tone suggested to the Stark girl otherwise as he glanced down with an apprehensive look in his eyes at the book which now rested on the small side table in front of him. "But why did you?" The question tumbled unchecked from his lips before Tyrion could stop himself, causing Sansa to blink owlishly at her lord husband in surprise and she bit her lip.

"Because I wanted to do something _nice_ for you, husband," she purred, "that's _why_ ," she whispered, lowing her voice and doing something that she had seen depicted several times in other books, romantic manuscripts of knights of old and their lovers.

She gathered the velvet fabric of her gown in her fists and knelt down in front of his chair, resting her arms over his knees, whereupon Sansa leaned her chin and fluttered her eyelashes in a playful manner, catching Tyrion's incredulous gaze in hers and held him captive there. Had this perhaps been any other situation with any other man, her behavior would have been considered most unladylike for a woman of her repute. But she wanted Tyrion Lannister just to see how serious she really was about him. "You do not like it?" she murmured lowly, unable to keep the note of antagonizing hurt from creeping its way at a rapidly alarming pace into her tone.

His green eyes were wide and bright, despite the dark circles underneath, and Sansa reached out with her left hand to allow the pads of her fingertips to ghost along the edges of his lips, tracing the outline of his mouth and feeling his warmth.

"N—no, that's not what I intended, I just did not expect you to…" Tyrion sighed and caught her hand in mid-air as she pulled her hand move and moved to turn away, bringing her knuckles to his lips for a kiss. "Thank you, Sansa. This book shall be cherished for as long as both of us are alive. I won't let anything happen to this last copy, I promise," he murmured, at last, his gaze briefly flitting to the book before darting back again to her.

Sansa nodded, turning her head and resting her cheek on her arm, allowing the soft velvet fabric of her dark blue gown to comfort her frayed nerves from her encounter with Bolton in the library, her eyelids fluttering closed to enjoy the tranquility between the two of them, as husband and wife. Moments of peace like this were hard for her and Lord Tyrion to come back, though she took them where they could.

"I heard tell of a raven arriving yesterday from King's Landing. What of Jaimie?"

She watched, her sky-blue cerulean orbs glistening in intrigue as Lord Tyrion's expression shifted from that of a peaceful sereneness to one of minor amusement and mischievousness. "He should be here within a fortnight. I hope," Tyrion murmured, his inquisitive gaze resting and lingering on Sansa. "You truly think Tarth will…"

But his voice trailed off and he dared not complete the sentence within these stone walls, for who knew what number of spies Lord Roose and Ramsay held within their command. Sansa nodded mutely. "She will. She just needs…." She paused to allow her mind a moment to consider the right words. "A little…encouragement."

Tyrion nodded, though he offered up no verbal quip of any kind, which Sansa found rather strange, and Sansa heard her voice trail off, unsure of how to phrase exactly what was on her mind, how she had seen the way that Ramsay Bolton's eyes crawled all over her front and then had felt his piercing gaze penetrate the back of her skull when she had dared to turn her back on Ramsay and walk away. What could she say to him?

That she suspected Roose's bastard was _scheming_ , up to something vile, though without any sort of viable evidence on her part with which to back up her claim, her argument for having something 'done' about the matter of Bolton's life was baseless.

Though Brienne had already agreed, following a meeting in secret in the godswoods a few days ago, though the young blonde had initially seemed reluctant.

It was Sansa's hope, however futile, that perhaps a visit from Lord Tyrion's brother, Ser Jaimie, would inspire and instill a newfound sense of courage in Brienne.

She hoped. Frowning, Sansa raised her head just in time to see Lord Tyrion avert his gaze from her, a telling color in his cheeks and he hung his head and allowed that one stubborn curly lock of course hair to fall in front of his eyes, effectively shielding her from his view. "What is wrong?" she asked, hating hearing the urgency in her voice as her eyebrows knitted together in quandary and she almost bit her tongue off in hesitation. She rose slightly from her kneeling position to feel his forehead. "Are you sick?" she asked, pulling back slightly in an effort to study her husband's face better.

Lord Tyrion shook his head, still refusing to meet his wife's gaze. "I thought…maybe that you would have…left when we…when we married, Lady Stark. And I thought…well. Just look at me, a _dwarf_ , a _monster_. This _is_ what I am, milady, there is no changing this about me, as much as I might wish to be normal. To be _different_ ," he growled, gesturing to himself. "That I would not blame you if you had."

Sansa blinked and looked up at Tyrion, a pang of sadness cutting right through her heart, that damned stubborn corded muscle within the confines of her chest that tended to cause her heart to flutter any time she looked into Tyrion Lannister's eyes.

Their marriage while strictly a political one was a strange union, for sure. Was Tyrion still so unsure of her feelings for him? She reflected back on the story he had told her and Ser Bronn of his first wife, of Tysha, and how Lord Tywin had promptly put an end to that marriage, was belittling Tyrion at every available opportunity, and she silently cursed the Imp's wretched old father for raising his son to feel so unloved.

She let out a sigh as a series of just a few hours ago underneath the weirwood tree in the godswood flitted through her mind, when the moonlight and darkness had courted one another, and in her husband's time, the time had whittled away to nothing.

Her skin heated with memories of being held, being touched, his trail of kisses that left sparks in his wake as he pressed his lips against the column of her throat, her collarbone, anywhere he could reach as he went lower….and lower…and lower still…

Sansa did not remember much of it, though one thing that stuck with her was the warmth of Tyrion's lips as they found hers in the darkness of the godswoods at night. She blinked as Lord Tyrion had opened his mouth to speak, pausing to collect his thoughts. His brows furrowed together for a moment in contemplative concentration.

Though as he lifted his chin and his gaze met hers, his hardened exterior softened and seemed to crack under the slightly scrutinizing and admonishing gaze of his wife's. "I just…never thought that what you and I have would happen to me…"

His hands found purchase in Sansa's auburn tresses as she rested her head in his lap, not getting up from her position on the floor, though kneeling in this manner for an extended amount of time was murder on her kneecaps, she refused to budge at all.

Sansa's frown deepened as her mind processed her lord husband's words to her. Her heart ached and her stomach flipped as she thought about Tyrion's statement. She supposed she ought not to be surprised by this sentiment. His initial disbelief that she could genuinely love him due to his status as a dwarf should have been telling enough.

However, knowing that such self-deprecating thoughts were spurred on by a lifetime of scorn and hateful words at his lord father's hand instilled within Sansa a fierce sense of protectiveness for her little lord husband. She closed her eyes and ground her teeth as she willed the protective temper that surged within her bloodstream to cool. Sansa rose slightly from her position on the floor and rested her chin on his shoulder and gave his right forearm a light squeeze.

"You hold too little of an opinion of yourself, milord," she murmured, raking her fingers through his hair in the manner that she knew Tyrion liked, and she was rewarded for her efforts as a tremor of pleasure wafted its way down her spine. The more emotional side of her mind did not want to lose the moment as she felt herself lean forward for another kiss, more passionate.

Though Sansa was a good few heads taller than Tyrion, it did not take much effort for the short man to push against Sansa's chest so that she was propelled backward away from his chair, and not having anticipated that would be the move her husband would make, she let out a tiny squeak and stumbled against the mattress of their bed.

Which seemed to be Tyrion's intent. Sansa rolled slightly with the pressure on her left shoulder as Tyrion moved himself up the bed to lay over his wife, his forearm braced on the bed, his fingers drifting somewhat lazily through Sansa's auburn tresses.

There were many things that Sansa loved about her husband, how Tyrion abandoned all control whenever he took her for himself, how his handsome face was a mirror of his lustful passions, his pleasures, and his emotions. He felt no need to hide his feelings whenever it was just the two of them together. Tyrion tended to react to her featherlight touches with a strange fierceness that made Sansa feel a little overwhelmed.

Sansa loved how Tyrion's voice deepened, hearing the moans that came from deep within his throat. She loved how that even just for a short while, she could make him forget that he was a dwarf, the Demon Monkey, the Imp, all of those names….

Tyrion opened Sansa's mouth with a gentle pressing of his tongue, warm and wet and a little groan rose out of the dwarf, his cock stirring yet again even after a little less than three hours ago when they'd loved each other underneath the weirwood.

He was eager for another round, it seemed. Sansa loved how her name tumbled from Tyrion's lips, how she could make him love his own body and its reactions to her wandering hands as she reached up and helped him undo the buttons of his jerkin.

She loved the way Tyrion writhed underneath her whenever she was on top, the way he pressed into her, feeling the warmth she gave off, onto her soft, sensitive skin, living for the moment, caught in between their climaxes and the moment that she knew neither one of them wanted to end. Lord Tyrion was never stingy with his love.

He shifted his weight carefully, his free hand trailing down Sansa's inner thighs as he hiked up the skirts of her gown, not even bothering to help his lady wife remove it.

"D—do you have time enough for this right now?" Sansa managed to gasp out in a meek voice, as she _swore_ , she had heard footsteps outside approaching in the hall.

Tyrion offered a light smile at his wife and leaned his head down to kiss Sansa's lips again. "Of course," he murmured, whispering it as his tongue forced her mouth open wider, effectively deepening their kiss, as his hand came up to cup her cheek. "Are you all right?" Tyrion asked in a low voice, his soft inquiry lingering in the shell of Sansa's ear and sent his wife smiling as he shifted so that he was inside of her with one thrust, though he made no move to continue, just relishing the warmth he was being fed just by the contact of being inside his wife for the second time in one night.

"Y—yes," Sansa stammered, though it was a miracle she could speak at all. "Keep…keep going…d—don't stop," she begged, biting down on her bottom lip.

Sansa loved to feel Tyrion inside of her, his surprisingly strong fingers wrapped around her waist, his weight pressing her down, effectively rendering her immobile.

She knew that her little lord loved to watch her relinquish her control, surrendering wholly to his whims and completely at his mercy. She knew Tyrion loved to reduce her to a trembling mess of pleasure, to make her lose any coherent thought.

To render her otherwise speechless whenever he made love to her. Tyrion was the only person in Sansa's life that she would ever allow to see her in such a vulnerable state. She loved it and Lord Tyrion knew this and took every advantage of this fact.

One of the things Sansa had always been grateful for was that Tyrion never pushed her, never forced her to do anything that she was not comfortable with, had never hurt her or laid a finger against her in anger, and was always careful to be gentle.

The questions asking after her well-being were always simple and clear, and Tyrion made it easy to fall in love. His gentleness. How much he understood Sansa.

They really were alike the two of them. They were two of a kind, and Sansa Stark's heart had firmly planted itself within Lord Tyrion's heart and she'd never uproot it again if she could help it, no matter what the Bastard of Bolton was scheming for her.

Sansa trembled and a shudder went down her spine as Tyrion quickened his pace, each thrust feeling like it would fill her to the brink, a little more so than the last.

Each push and pull as he thrust in and out settled a deeper, warmer ache, within her, moving Sansa a little bit closer to the edge of her climax, though he took his time.

Sansa grinned into their kiss as his lips met hers with a passionate fever, letting out a half-muffled cry as she buried her head in the crook of Tyrion's shoulder as the man hit his peak and his seed spilled inside her, letting out a groan, his body tensing.

Though he quickly relaxed, and Sansa's name left her husband's lips like a raptured sigh, and his hands moved up to grip onto Sansa's waist almost painfully tight.

He finished out his climax in shallow, half-thrusts, and Sansa cherished and savored this moment, how Sansa felt owned and anchored, practically pinned to their bed. She loved the warmth of her husband's release inside of her, praying this was it.

They wanted, no, scratch that, they _needed_ a Lannister heir, and _soon_. It was the only thing that would keep Ramsay Bolton at bay, though at the moment, Sansa wanted only to think of Tyrion, how she loved everything about her lord husband.

He had become a relatively easy man to please, and he had proven himself to be not quite as perverted as the stories told of him throughout King's Landing had embellished. Sansa loved how unselfishly Tyrion gave all of himself to her without her ever having to ask for it. How ready and willing he was to share whatever she needed.

As he finished and pulled out, promptly pulling up his breeches and nestling himself within the confines of Sansa's gentle embrace, Sansa could not help but to wonder if Lord Tyrion understood just how truly remarkable, she found the little lord.

How perfect and un-assuming the man was. How gentle he was. How much he cared. Sansa had never shared in or confided to Lord Tyrion her concerns about feeling certain that she would live in this world and die without knowing what it meant to love. How she had not believed in love when Joffrey had cast her aside for Margaery.

She made it a clear point never to talk about her emotions when it came to that, how impossible the idea of a lover like Tyrion filling her needs had seemed to her at the time when they had first married all those months ago. But maybe…maybe she should try. Did she not owe him that much, at least? As the man's wife and hopefully mother to their children someday, if the old and new gods were fit to bless them with fertility?

Sansa shuddered as Tyrion's arms wrapped around her middle in a bear hug, and with a shift in her weight, she nestled against the mattress and pillows, lowering herself slightly so she could look into her husband's eyes, green, and brimming with love.

For _her_. "You are all right?" Her husband whispered into the shell of her ear, and Sansa felt the edges of her lips curl upwards, her genuine smile returning again, her eyes crinkling as she nestled her chin against Tyrion's surprisingly firm chest, snuggling up against him.

"Yes. Thank you," Sansa whispered to Lord Tyrion by way of response to his query. Tyrion laughed and rested his chin on her shoulder.

"Anytime, my wife. I hope you know that I…truly enjoy our time together."

He was much too generous, Sansa thought, feeling like she might weep. Sansa knew that she was selfish, that she craved his touch, and wanted Tyrion for herself.

Just him, she thought. Though she thought they balanced each other out. His selflessness with her selfishness. A perfect complement of the other, really, wasn't it?

Tyrion rested on the edge of their bed for a moment, smiling softly at her before he reached out a firm hand and pushed back an auburn lock of Sansa's hair out of her eyes. "I love you, Sansa. I hope that you don't forget it, because if you do, I'll have to remind you," he said lowly, his voice husky and heavy with desire, almost so easy for the Imp it came as natural to her lord husband as breathing, and Sansa's heart lurched.

"And I you," she murmured, closing her eyes and allowing herself to succumb to sleep, thinking that as she heard Lord Tyrion whisper sweet nothings, words of affirmation into the shell of her ear, that her world, for once, felt extraordinarily right.


	43. Jaime-Tyrion-Ramsay

** Jaime-Tyrion-Ramsay **

Jaime bit the inside wall of his cheek in nervous trepidation, tasting iron and copper on his tongue and then his palette before turning his head to the side and spitting out the mouthful of blood that had gathered there as his horse’s hooves sank sanguinely into the wretched freezing snow of the North. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so fucking nervous.

There was a part of him that did not deny that he had wished for this moment since Brienne had departed King’s Landing following Joffrey’s death, longing to go with her, yet lacking the conviction to leave Cersei behind, though whatever reception Brienne would give him, even that Jaime could not say, and there was no telling how she would react upon seeing him again. He couldn’t say. And that thought, more than anything else about all of this, fucking terrified him.

His brother’s demand at the bequest of his wife that he come as soon as he was able had not told him much when he had received the raven addressed to him, however, had said that the Bolton family were becoming increasingly problematic for his wife, especially the broken son of Lord Roose Bolton, Ramsay Snow, that little cunt.

He had not forgotten how Ramsay Bolton had treated both Tyrion _and_ Sansa on their wedding night, pairing with the likes of his own bastard son to humiliate them.

Jaimie swore under his breath and gritted his teeth, having to raise a gloved hand in front of his forehead to shield his eyes from the blinding white of the snow.

A shrouded figure appeared in front of him upon reaching the edge of the godswoods, and his shoulders slumped in defeat upon noticing the person was not Brienne as he had hoped, but rather that of Tyrion’s wife, though when Sansa Stark of Winterfell slowly lifted her chin and offered the man a shy and unassuming smile, grabbing the skirts of her green gown and sinking into a low curtsy, his sour mood dissipated, and the corners of his mouth tugged upwards as if she had placed him under a witch’s curse.

For all Jaimie knew, perhaps she _had_. He let out a sigh and dismounted his horse, not even seeing one of Winterfell’s stableboys, a Bolton sworn sword come up behind him and take the reins of his horse. “Lady Stark,” he murmured lowly, stifling his smile, though the corners of his mouth turned upwards as he brought his brother’s wife’s white-boned knuckles to his lips for a brief but chaste kiss. “You are not cold, milady?”

Sansa shook her head, a lock of auburn hair tumbling in front of her face as she did so. “No, milord. I am quite used to it.” She shot him a somewhat teasing smile that caused Jaime to look away and bite his tongue, shaking his head to clear. What in the seven fucking hells had he been thinking, asking such a thoughtless question? She grew up in bloody fucking Winterfell, of course, the She-Wolf would have adapted to cold.

Sansa wriggled her brows at Ser Jaime. “ _Walk_ with me, Ser Jaime. Keep me company. Rest assured the view here in Winterfell in winter is a sight more pleasant those the gardens of King’s Landing, milord,” Sansa murmured lowly under her breath, her breaths making visible puffs of white cold air as the words left her lips.

He almost snorted at Sansa’s wit, though he managed to restrain himself, disguising as a poor cough. Jaime mutely nodded, though he sensed the urgency behind Sansa Stark’s request, and one glance behind him was more than enough. He could feel the wandering eyes of Bolton soldiers, those snakes in Winterfell’s courtyard, crawling over his brother’s wife’s backside, and he was quick to decide that he did not like it at all.

The Kingslayer turned his head to the side once to cough and regarded Tyrion’s wife in silence as for several moments, the only sound was their footfalls, the sound of their boots crunching beneath the snow, though he allowed himself a moment to observe Sansa Stark in silence. She looked bright and healthy, and yet there was something of her that seemed much changed, for he had not seen Tyrion nor Sansa since their departure from King’s Landing. Sansa seemed much more reserved than before, though he wondered if any of that had to do with the current company that they kept within Winterfell’s stone walls.

She looked tired if the darkening circles underneath both of her eyes were anything for Jaime to go off of, as Sansa Stark of Winterfell had a few sleepless nights. Not quite unlike himself then. Jaime repressed the urge to sigh as a few of the Bolton soldiers, nameless cunts, all of them, shot him apprehensive looks as the pair passed through the courtyard, heading towards the warmth of Winterfell’s interior.

Not even a year ago, they had once looked upon him with animosity, and it did not escape his sharp eyes that some of the older sellswords still held eyes of suspicion at seeing the rather strange sight of Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell walk in tandem with the Kingslayer himself.

Though on the whole, Jaime was quick to conclude they were more interested in his connection with Sansa than anything else, and why he was here. _To see Brienne_.

He froze for a moment, brows knitted together in quandary. Just that thought alone plastered underneath his skin and made it crawl, causing goose flesh to break out.

Jaime did notice that while the sworn Bolton soldiers bowed towards Jaime in acknowledgment as he ushered Lady Stark inside, they proceeded to look upon his brother’s wife with obvious scorn and what he could only describe as envy, lust, and ire.

Once inside, Jaime felt his shoulders slump in relief, though the warmth was now causing a thick sheen of sweat to throng upon his browbone, slowly sliding down his temples, and no fool was he. It took no scholar or maester to see that he was nervous.

Brienne had every right to be angry with him, and he fully expected that she would, and Jaime was half a mind to question Lady Sansa’s insistence that he come here.

Tarth’s daughter did not need _him_ by her side in order to rid Sansa of Ramsay Snow, that bastard, that vicious cunt who deserved to be flayed alive and fed to his own dogs, though he doubted that even the old bitches would want him, much less the crows.

Jaime focused on pondering over whether or not he had ever found himself in a more awkward and somewhat precarious position than this, and he felt his eyes slide instinctively towards Sansa as they continued strolling towards the mess hall at a snail’s pace. Sansa instinctively stiffened once she caught wind that Tyrion’s brother was staring at her, her shoulders rising slightly in defense before Sansa quickly averted her gaze, furrowing her eyebrows and dutifully clapping her hands together in front of her middle.

Perhaps for the third or fourth time in his life, he found himself at a loss for words, considering following his brother’s removal from the Red Keep to come here to Winterfell, he had begun to spend increasing amounts of time by himself, away from _her_. Jaime clenched his teeth in annoyance as just the thought of Cersei’s name caused his skin to crawl, plastering a quiet vibration there as he recollected truly leaving the cunt.

Cersei made it entirely too easy for him to not ignore the baser parts of his nature, what he really was. There was no point in trying to deny it. All that was left was a beast.

No lion was he, all that remained of himself these days was but an empty shell. After a moment, Jaime exhaled a tense breath through his nose and stole a glance at Sansa. Satisfied with the shock that he saw displayed on her face as he caught her looking in his introspectiveness. Though just as the man grew complacent, however, his eyes stopped upon seeing Sansa halt in her tracks. They were close to Winterfell’s mess hall.

Jaime furrowed his blond brows in confusion, wondering what could have prompted the sudden shift within his lord brother’s wife countenance, why she was—

“Milady?” he murmured, taking a cautious half-step forward, upon seeing how pale and pulled taut her face was, as beads of sweat had begun to form on Sansa’s brow.

Sansa Stark seemed to shiver violently in the corridor, despite the minor comfort of the heat and light that emanated off the torches from their places in the sconces on the walls. Sansa held out a hand in front of her the moment Jaime took another step forward.

“I—I will be _fine_ , Ser Jaime, don’t…worry about me…” she gasped, though she did not look it. Jaimie could tell she certainly did not feel it, watching in slight abject horror as his brother’s wife’s breathing, which had been coming in spasmodic gasps, slowed to an almost barely noticeable pace and she clamped a hand over her mouth.

Jaime’s frown deepened as he pondered over what could be the cause for the sudden change in Sansa’s physical well-being. They were near the kitchens, where the smells of the cooks and various kitchen wenches of Winterfell were in the midst of preparing the dinner for the evening. Boiled mutton and goose, from the smell of things.

Panic rose within his throat, tightening it in a painful struggle. What was happening to Tyrion’s wife? What if his brother blamed _him_ for Sansa’s sudden ills?

He watched as Sansa lowered her head, still keeping one hand clamped over her mouth, her eyes tightly squeezed shut, her breathing slowing, as though fighting against the urge to be sick. Her already pale skin that on a good day, looked as though it were cut from the finest pearls, seemed a shade even paler, making her dark red hair stand out almost violently against her skin. It was a look that Jaime decided he did not like at all.

Sansa stumbled to the corner of the corridor, attempting to put as much distance between herself and the horrid smells originating from the slightly cracked open door of the kitchens as possible. Though it did her little good in this regard. With each step, her stomach tightened and ached all the more. She kept swallowing, and her throat kept clenching, but to no avail could she quell the sudden warm feeling rising through her chest. Waves of heat coursed through her fiery bloodstream, a cold sweat glistening on her gaunt features. Her eyes sunken in and hollow, everything felt like it ached, sagging.

An icy chill proceeded to run up and down her spine, feeling as though someone had doused her in ice water from the lake near the godswoods. What was _wrong_ with her?!? She had felt perfectly fine this morning, or so she had thought, but now?!?

“Ser Jaime, I…” Sansa struggled to speak, trying to plead with Ser Jaime to send for Tyrion or Maester Qyburn, though she felt so incredibly dizzy and unbearably hot as her stomach churned, having decided upon smelling the scents of the broiled muttons that she was to go no further. Nausea clawed at her tightened throat as it hollowed and constricted, and Sansa tried to force down the bile, but it was too late.

Her stomach kept on contracting violently and forcing everything she had eaten to break her fast this morning up and out. Her face was white and dripping bile, sweat, and tears. She lurched forward and sunk to her knees. The pungent stench invaded her nostrils and she heaved even though there was nothing left to go.

Jaime’s own stomach lurched, twisting as a coil in his gut as he tried not to scrunch his nose in disgust at the sight of his brother’s wife choking on the vile stew forcing its way out of her mouth. She was paler than a scroll of parchment paper and lathered in throngs of sweat that had started to perspire on her brow. She needed a maester’s care.

He took a step forward; two lengthy strides were all it required to close off the gap of space between himself and his brother’s now violently ill wife. Jaimie felt nauseous as Sansa Stark lifted her head, at just seeing the disgusting bile drip from her chin like that.

But he knelt down and reluctantly wiped it away with the very edge of his cloak.

“Come, milady, I think that I should escort you to see Maester Qyburn, yes? You are _ill_. Don’t you think?” Jaime urged, watching with cautious eyes as Sansa Stark blearily lifted her chin, struggling to focus her hazy vision more than two feet in front of her, trying to read Jaime’s lips, but could not seem to hear his voice at all as he spoke to her in low tones. Black spots suddenly began to dance in her vision, threatening to blind her wholly.

“No, no, I could…I could take myself,” Sansa managed to gasp out, continuing to keep one arm outstretched from her as she continued to dry heave and gag, though there was nothing left to emerge from the still-churning pits of her stomach, though the moment she attempted to use her outstretched arm against the cold stone wall to steady her balance, her equilibrium was still very much off, a side effect of her sudden sickness.

Her body no longer held the strength to hold her upright anymore and her knees gave out before she could think about stopping herself or insisting Ser Jaime not help her.

Sansa Stark pitched forward in a crumpled heap, her breaths coming fast and hard. She couldn’t get a good breath, even with her lungs straining for air that would not come.

The last thing she saw before the spots took over completely was the concerned face of her husband, Tyrion kneeling over and attempting to look into Sansa’s blue eyes.

Then, she slipped into a deep sleep, oblivious to the entire world around her.

* * *

Jaime was certain he had never seen his younger brother so aghast and appalled at his wife’s current physical condition. Tyrion had rounded the corner at the _worst_ possible moment, the exact second Sansa Stark’s knees gave out and she crumpled to the floor.

“Sansa?” Jaime watched as Tyrion observed with dawning horror as his wife’s blue eyes flickered once or twice and then closed as she succumbed to a dreamless sleep.

His voice cracked as the words tumbled from his lips in a steady stream of rushed, panicked thoughts. Jaime knew he should say something to his younger brother, to speak some words that would offer him at least a small modicum of comfort, but what, _then_?

What would he _say_ to his brother, the murderer of their own father? Tyrion had become so absorbed in watching Sansa’s rapidly declining health that had seemingly appeared, in his mind, out of nowhere and without any warning signs whatsoever that had indicated to him this morning that Sansa might be taken ill, that he didn’t see Jaime.

Jaime knelt and swiftly carried the unconscious young She-Wolf of Winterfell in his arms, her head lolling back against the crook of his elbow, offering a curt nod of his head upon hearing his brother’s mumbled thanks under his breath, hurrying to Qyburn.

The maester and healer of his sister’s was a sly roguish cunt if ever there was one, and Jaime was not apt soon to forget that the snake had wanted to cut off what remained of his hand back when Locke had relieved him of his sword hand, and Jaime bristled, the fine hairs on the back of his neck standing up as visions of that man’s face flashed in his mind and seeing Brienne of Tarth’s concerned face over the state of his well-being drenched his serene memory. Jaime blinked once, twice, shaking his head to clear it.

Tyrion silently tried to think his brother by nodding his head as he led the way as fast as he could down the hall, flinging the door open, where the wood practically shattered against the stone wall in its hinges as he barked out an order for Qyburn.

Jaime felt himself stiffen instinctively as his sister’s trusted maester and perhaps, dare he think this next part, the closest thing Cersei had to a friend in Westeros, tottered around the corner, grumbling darkly under his breath as he fought with picking at a loose sleeve coming undone on his black maester’s robes, though upon hearing the hardened edges of Lord Tyrion Lannister’s tones, his head whiplashed sharply upwards, eyes wide.

“Come. Here,” Maester Qyburn murmured, all traces of annoyance within his eyes dissipated, to be immediately replaced with concern at seeing Sansa Stark like this.

With Jaime’s help, Qyburn gingerly laid Sansa’s slack form on top of a makeshift cot in the corner of his quarters. Jaime bristled at being back here, hoping that the shifty little bastard wouldn’t ask to see the stump of his hand for ‘medical research purposes.’

Once Jaime and Tyrion had Sansa gently settled on top of the mattress, Jaime watched as his brother’s emotions began to catch up to him as he sat perched firmly on the bedside next to his wife.

"You're going to have to stay _calm_ , Lord Tyrion."

Maester Qyburn’s voice sounded so… _distant_ , muffled like he was underwater, and yet there was the hint of familiar ice that met steel within Qyburn’s sharp tone that told Tyrion he needed to listen to the man. Yet, he could not seem to find it within himself to tear his gaze away from Sansa Stark’s now-ashen colored face.

A haze of guilt and fear engulfed him as he looked at the illustrious sleeping beauty on top of her bed. Sansa looked so vulnerable, so small. Helpless. As if she were made of silk over glass, as if just touching her would cause her to shatter into a million pieces. What had caused this? And why couldn't he help her?!

Qyburn moved to the other side of Sansa’s cot, a gnarled and slightly clawed hand resting on his patient’s forehead, and then it moved down to her arms, no doubt checking for any symptoms that she might be developing a fever or injury. When the measeter had finished his initial examination and once-over of Sansa, the aging man gave a sigh of relief and raised his head to meet Tyrion’s panic-stricken face. Qyburn exhaled a shaking breath through his slender and slightly hooked nose and quirked a brow at Tyrion.

" _Listen_ to me, milord," Maester Qyburn snapped, his tone curt and harsh, trying to get Tyrion’s attention. It was better said than done because as of yet, Tyrion had yet to react within Qyburn or Jaime’s very presence within his chamber. "Sansa Stark is going to be _fine_ , and the last thing she needs is _you_ exacerbating her stress."

Intrigued, Jaime watched in silence, biting the wall of his cheek as Tyrion closed his eyes and clutched onto Sansa’s hand in his own, bringing her knuckles to his lips for a kiss.

It gave a jolt of wonder for Jaime to see Tyrion this way. His silence meant more, and he had hardly ever witnessed his brother lose control in such a way.

"What happened?" Qyburn asked, his question solely directed to Tyrion, though he might as well have been talking to the _wall_ for all good his query did. Jaime, sensing Tyrion was not about to respond, launched into a brief explanation, of how she had gotten sick just outside of the mess hall. Occasionally, Qyburn made a non-committal grunt from the back of his throat, though he offered no verbal follow up as to what his suspicions to Sansa Stark's ailments might be.

With such a painstaking slowness, he had seen _snails_ move slower, the younger man raised his head and dared to meet the older man’s gaze, his brows furrowed in a frown as Maester Qyburn could see just for the first time how much color Tyrion in his face had lost, more so than usual. This little 'incident' had clearly shaken the poor dwarf to his core and was affecting him in a grievous way.

"H—how is this _fine_ , Maester Qyburn?! She—she's _not_ fine! Far from it!" Jaime’s brother barked sharply, and for a fraction of a second, Qyburn could see the shadow of something unrecognizable dart across the man's scarred and handsome features, and judging by the audible gasps of Jaime Lannister, he had seen it too.

His voice came out sharper than Tyrion had meant it to, and Jaime felt himself flinch away, and even Qyburn shirked away in surprising hurt.

" _Enough_!" Qyburn snarled, his voice hoarser and rougher than before. The maester of Winterfell and Queen Cersei’s friend hardened his already slightly grotesque expression in response to Tyrion’s unfounded aggression, unfazed by the man's anger, and replied in a clipped tone, careful to ensure his voice remained stoic and calm.

Though the maester would be lying to himself he did not internally confess that it bothered him immensely whenever the Imp got like this.

Maester Qyburn heaved a heavy sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose with his gnarled thumb and forefinger, leaning heavily against the wall for support. "The Light of the Seven help me," he growled under his breath, lowering his voice so that Tyrion Lannister could not hear him. He sighed again and raised his voice, ensuring that all parties involved in the room, all except for Sansa, and that was only because she was still passed out from whatever it was that ailed her. "Because your wife’s health is not in any _danger_ , milord. Sansa merely collapsed because her body became too taxed from stress. Stress, I _might_ add," Qyburn growled, his gaze settling on Tyrion and Jaime collectively, “that is caused by a unique experience, that would you allow me to elaborate, I could explain, but since I cannot get a word in edgewise, then I _shan’t_.”

"But—" Tyrion started to say but fell silent upon being on the receiving end of a particularly withering look from the maester.

" _Trust_. _Me_." Qyburn practically snarled the command, hating that he had to be gruff with young master Tyrion, for he thought him one of the calmest and level-headed men in all of Westeros, or at least throughout King’s Landing, though, in his current agitated state of worry over his girl, the worrying would help no one, especially not Sansa.

"Your wife will wake up in an hour or so and perfectly fine again. I know a little about these matters, believe it or not, milord," Qyburn barked, lacing his fingers together and shrinking into his black robes.

Tyrion blinked and felt himself frown. _Stress_?! Stress had caused _this_?! Tyrion's frown deepened and returned his attention back to the young redhead lying on top of her cot, and at least it gave him some small comfort when he rested his hand on top of hers, he could swear he felt her fingers give a twitch.

Already, it seemed as though some of her normal colors had returned. Her pale skin had a slightly healthier sheen about it. Even her breathing had regulated back to its normal rhythm, and the slow rising and falling of her chest was the sweetest sight Tyrion could ask for in this tense moment of wrought concern and his spiked anxiety levels and blood pressure levels over all of this.

He was truly in awe of how small her hand was compared next to his, as the pads of his fingertips ghosted along her knuckles. Sansa's hand, fully splayed, was still no bigger than Tyrion’s palm.

"Thank you, Qyburn," Tyrion whispered hoarsely, blearily lifting his head to study Mad-Eye's impassively neutral expression. "I—I did not mean to…overreact. But…I'd still like to stay. Please…"

The aging healer and maester gave a gruff nod, his gaze, however, remained fixated on the closed window, the pane of glass concealed from outside view by the drawn curtain. He furrowed what was left of his thinning, greying brows in a frown and stifled a low warning growl deep from within his slender, wiry chest, frowning.

" _What_?" Tyrion barked sharply, lifting his head to follow where Qyburn was looking at. He was _not_ in a patient mood right now, wanting to know what was happening to his wife, why she had passed out like this. Stress did not seem a satisfactory enough answer, and Qyburn had better speak quickly, or else there would be a storm brewing, and he did not want Jaime present for that should it happen, given how his presence in their family was already unwanted as it was. Tyrion frowned. "What _is_ it, Qyburn? What do you see?" he demanded, feeling another surge of panic well within his chest, and his gaze flitted back to Sansa. "Did…?"

 _Did someone do this to her? Seven hells. If they did, I'll kill them. Kill them all. Rip them apart. Tear them. Cut off the offending arm that did this to her and feed it to Bolton’s fucking hounds. Rip. Kill…_ _Who did this to her? Tell me what you see_. Was what he _wanted_ to ask but couldn't bring himself to form the words. He was torn between his desire to get up and stride to the window, draw back the curtain and see for himself with his own wretched sight, but the other side of him, felt justified in remaining in his current spot, right next to Sansa’s side, so his face would be the first thing that she saw when she woke up.

Qyburn’s pale face relaxed, though his frown remained. "I thought I saw…" His voice trailed off and he shook his head to clear it. "Never mind. Whatever it was is gone now." He emanated a tense exhale through his nose and rested both of his hands in front of him, cocking his head to the side and regarding Sansa. "She is…truly something.”

Maester Qyburn allowed a dark little chuckle that was more of a snort to escape his thin lips as he shuffled towards the door. "Come." The healer’s voice was gruff and coarser than usual as he spoke to Jaime, who bristled at being addressed by Cersei’s maester. " _Leave_ them." He paused a moment, ushering Jaime out of the room, though not before lingering in the doorway and casting a cautious glance back over his shoulder. A sardonic snort escaped his lips and he shook his head in admiration. "You are…special to the Stark girl.” Qyburn paused, a hand on the door’s entryway to steady himself, and Tyrion blinked at him.

He couldn’t be sure, but he was _sure_ he saw the old man's face light up in something akin to a genuine smile as he smiled at him.

“Oh,” Qyburn added, almost as an afterthought, a coy little smile forming, tugging at the corners of his thin lips. “I think it appropriate to notate at this point and time, based on what you have told me, young master Jaime,” Qyburn murmured, turning his gaze towards Jaime, “that I can safely assume the reason for your wife’s sickness is…well…”

A few more stammering words from Qyburn caused Tyrion’s green eyes to widen in shock as the reasons for her sudden ailments were revealed.

He knew it the first moment he laid eyes on her all those years ago, here in Winterfell. For what 'normal' woman could live through the violent deaths of almost her entire kin, and backtalk to Joffrey Baratheon and Ramsay Snow and get away with it each and every single time? Sansa Stark, like him, was a survivor.

Though what shocked Tyrion, though they had been together now for a few months now, was the simple yet astonishing thought that _he_ could ever be special to the young woman. Tyrion thought it remarkable, how, even after all these months, how he, a Lannister with no real significance, with nothing to give other than a vast amount of wealth and comfort, could mean anything of importance to Sansa. Was he really worth the amount of risk Sansa had taken to defend him and his honor towards the people of Westeros’s insults? Was he worth her life? What if she could no longer show her face in polite society because of the choice that she had made today, and because of _him_. What life had he condemned Sansa to by daring to fall in love with her? How could he possibly be worth that to her?

He couldn't begin to understand it.

"Ngh…Tyrion…" Tyrion watched, his green eyes widening in surprise as Sansa stirred in her sleep, breaking him out of his stream of thoughts, the strange ghost of a smile flitting across her face in sleep, yet she did not wake. Even more shocked that she'd spoken his name in her sleep. And with such a profound tenderness and care. Tyrion felt his heart swell and flutter at hearing her succulent voice speak his name. The feeble damned corded muscle within his chest still always tended to react so strangely whenever his love spoke his name. It was a secret joy of his.

One that he kept to himself, for if Jaime or anyone else were to learn of it how it affected him, he would be mercilessly teased. Tyrion reached over and gave Sansa’s shaking hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze as if to convey to her that she was safe, as long as he did not leave her alone again.

"Don't…leave…s—stay…"

Tyrion felt his heart nearly skip and stop right there on the spot at the unbridled amount of fear in Sansa’s sleep-filled voice. Sansa was…she was terrified that he would leave her?

That he would just cruelly abandon her to whatever fears lay just beneath the realm of whatever sleep she currently was experiencing now. Now, Sansa was asking of him for him not to leave her side while she slept off whatever mysterious ailment had come over.

Which, now that he thought about it, he'd never actually watched her sleep before quite like this, but by the gods and the Light of the Seven, by them all, she looked…beautiful.

Angelic, almost. Now that a little more color had returned to her complexion and she was no longer under the taxing events of stress and her breathing had regulated to a slower rhythm, something that resembled normalcy. Sansa looked calm. At peace, and he would not leave her side until she woke up, and even then, was loath to leave her alone, for look what happened the last few times he had!

He did not like to think it when Ramsay would skulk around the next corner to haunt his wife’s footsteps with his poisonous words and lustful behaviors, and it was for that reason that he would never leave her side. Tyrion would be here for her.

"Don't worry," he whispered, carefully propping himself on the edge of her bed and leaned over to whisper his words of affirmation and reassurance into the shell of her ear. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here where I'm sitting, love. I'm not anywhere else. I'll be here by your side. I promise. Always. I’m right here."

He leaned down and pressed a gentle, chaste kiss to her forehead, though as he drew away, he frowned, and found his gaze drawn towards the curtained window. Tyrion felt the dread creep down his spine like a spider leaving a trail of silk, and he could not quite shake the feeling that the two of them were somehow being watched.

As Tyrion’s mind struggled to process the maester’s words, his head came sharply as he stared after the now-closed bedroom door, thoroughly astonished by his words the maester had spat at him in haste.

There was a new reason to live for, after all.

Sansa Stark was _pregnant_.

Though he made absolutely no move to get up from his spot next to Sansa on her bed, if he would have strode to the window and drawn back the curtain, he would have seen Ramsay standing outside the window, listening to every word he had just uttered to Sansa in confidence.

* * *

Ramsay Snow felt his calloused fingers wind into a tight fist around the hilt of his dagger as his teeth clenched, grinding in anger as he moved away from the window, and the last thing he wanted was to get caught before his plan could set into motion. He needed more time, but Ramsay had needed to see it for himself with his own eyes, and he had spied on them like death from behind an old godswoods tree.

He should have known that the dwarf would be all riled up.

The way the bastard sly little cunt whispered sweet nothings into the young woman's ear, his lips pressed against hers in a fervor whispered a threat to Ramsay’s planned ambitions, towards his delectable plans for _his_ lovely little bride. _His_.

Not the Imp. _His_. He had never thought it possible, that a woman could love such a creature. This woman, his bride, that redhaired She-Wolf, had tamed the lust within the dwarf somehow, and Ramsay did not at all approve of the kindness. Kindness was what had killed Domeric.

Love led the man to his gruesome demise, and it was a fate that was even worse than death. His mind was racing fast with so many possibilities of how to solve this latest problem, and Locke was going to listen to him, damn the man to the seven hells and back, or there would be blood spilt.

 _Seven hells. I'll kill her. Kill him. Kill them all if I cannot have her_.

This last thought ran as a drop of fever in his blood.

_Kill them all…_


	44. Sansa

** Sansa **

It was a glum, dull, uninspiring day from Winterfell’s rooftop. The winds of winter boasted little comfort to her nausea the following morning upon learning the news, yet the biting cold provided at least a small modicum of comfort, which Sansa supposed ought to be better than nothing. The wind kissed her red tresses and pinked her cheeks, and Sansa Stark of Winterfell stared out at the grounds of her family’s estate in a sense of nervous anticipation, biting the wall of her cheek.

A coil in her gut twisted uncomfortably, and perhaps for the third or fourth time in the span of the last two and a half hours, her poor stomach lurched. She swallowed down hard past the disgusting bile.

The world around her was a frozen winter wonderland, a land of seemingly eternal winter, but up here, upon the roofs of Winterfell, Sansa felt…strangely at peace, how different it was, wild, almost untamed, in a way. For just the span of a single heartbeat from that damned stubborn corded muscle within her chest, Sansa felt _alive_.

Freed of the confines of the stuffy castle walls. No council meetings, no wandering eyes of the Bolton lords and their sellswords and sworn men crawling up her backside wherever she chose to wander.

Sansa heard herself emanate a tense exhale through her flaring nostrils, sniffling once and shrinking into her cloak for warmth as much as she could, letting out a tired sigh and glancing down and out into the courtyard of the castle, and she felt the fine hairs on the back of her neck stand upright and she bristled, sensing her moment of tranquility was now interrupted. She _felt_ him. Sansa felt Ramsay Snow’s presence.

He was close now. Though this was admittedly the last place Sansa believed that Snow would follow her up here, even she supposed the wolf could not resist stalking its prey. Sansa let out another sigh, this time in an unrestrained fashion, hating that he still pursued her.

This was…admittedly not what she had expected to become of this when she informed Lord Tyrion that she merely wished to clear her mind. She had informed him and his brother, Jaime, and Brienne, that she would only be a moment on the castle’s roof. No one else was here.

Sansa furrowed her brows into a frown, recollecting how every time she suffered in Ramsay Bolton’s presence, that snake, that bastard, how it felt as though he took away bits of her humanity, a little at a time.

He haunted her footsteps, plagued her nightmares these days so that she awoke, her brow drenched in a cold sweat as sheens of perspiration thronged upon her forehead. This morning was an example of such an isolated incident. She dreamed of Bolton’s face and the Wolf.

The last several nights, always the same dream. Sansa was beginning to wonder if this was the Light of the Seven, the old gods and the new, sending her a sort of premonition, of what was to be his fate.

But by the gods, she could only pray for it. _Always the same fate_ …

From the shadows in a dark place in her dream, that smelt of death, mold, piss, shit, and the wretched stink of vomit came a Wolf.

Yet the beast in her nightmare was no ordinary predator. The creature moved to block Ramsay Snow’s exit in her dream when the dark-haired man with the angelic face and brilliant blue eyes and the heart of a shadowy demon attempted to quit the dull scene entirely.

The only sound in her nightmares was always the monster’s breathing, his flaring nostrils as the bitch got right up in his face, sniffing his scent. The Direwolf curled up her gums to reveal bloodied incisors, her proud canines, and then let out a low, rumbling growl from deep within the confines of her chest, snarling and baring her fangs.

Ramsay made no move to bolt from his spot, Sansa remembered this part well, seemingly unfazed by the fact that if he did not run, then his throat would be ripped from him, chunks of flesh and gore were strewn about the dungeons, the same place where he tortured and humiliated Theon. His flesh would become consumed, blood staining the cobblestones beneath the Direwolf’s claws, though he stayed quite still.

The Direwolf, for her part, Sansa recognized her face. Nymeria. Her sister’s She-Wolf, a loyal hound until the end, though Nymeria wanted nothing more than to taste Snow’s honey-sweet blood on her tongue, to inhale the Man’s scent, his fears, his trepidations. Her teeth, eerily incandescent as the edges of her mouth pulled back to reveal her gums, seemed to emit a strange pearly glow in the dark dungeon space.

The bitch’s teeth were as sharp as a fine diamond sword. The Man in front of Nymeria moved a fraction of an inch, and a string of curses unraveled from Snow’s tongue, foul, bitter, evil, wicked words, like string unfurling, as the imposing shadow form of Nymeria advanced.

Every step the man took, Nymeria closed in on him by bounding forward in two leaps, so fast, that Sansa could not recall all the details.

Snow tried to doge a swing from the beast’s massive jaws as she lunged for her chosen prey, but he failed and struck the side of his ribcage and he tumbled to the stone floor of the dungeons in a heap.

All it seemed Ramsay Bolton could do was feel, and all Nymeria could do was smell. The thick, coppery, sweet tang of his blood wafted through the bitch’s flaring nostrils, eliciting a low growl from the creature’s throat, her tail wagging back and forth in eagerness, as it stalked towards Ramsay, slowly at first, and then she lunged for him.

It was at this point when the dream for Sansa changed, the details becoming crisper in her mind, and she recollected and felt _everything_.

It hurt her even now to recall at the top of Winterfell’s roof like this, and she swallowed down again as more bitter acidic stomach bile crept up from her stomach, through her esophagus, and on her tongue.

She frowned, thinking that these illnesses of the stomach ever since Maester’s Qyburn and Wolkan and Lord Tyrion had confided in her last night that she was pregnant with her husband’s child, were not _fair_ , though Sansa Stark squeezed her eyes tightly shut, not wanting to forget the vivid gruesomeness of her dream that ailed her tired mind.

Though her stomach swooped and churned, rejecting most manner of foods these last few hours, her only comfort being that of water dipped in lime or lemon, she forced herself to remember even the most minute detail of her nightmare she awoke from this morning.

Always the same, and she savored it. How Ramsay Snow felt the cold ground pressed against his chiseled, god-like form, the heat from the pain of his fall, and the rhythm of the feeble corded muscle within his chest that quivered as crimson blood, thick, garish, sticky, leaked from his bite wounds, and soon it would signal Snow’s end as Nymeria approached a third time, ravenous, hungered look in her beady eyes.

Ramsay would close his eyes as the bitch lunged, sinking its razor-sharp teeth in the pristine, unmarked flesh of the pale column of the bastard’s throat, feeling searing pain, his very last, and it was then that Sansa began to feel as though she _was_ the huge Direwolf in her dream.

A drop of ravenous hunger spread through Nymeria’s entire body, like something the bitch had never felt before as it consumed the beast.

The Direwolf’s heart within her chest beats stubbornly, a horrible, fatigued ringing in her pointed ears as the sound of the Man’s screams resonated off the walls of Winterfell’s dungeons. Sansa felt… _everything_.

Blood, sweat, all of it warm, sticky, garish, and wonderful, skimmed around the edges of the She-Wolf’s mouth as she sank her fangs, again and again, over, and over, into Ramsay Snow’s pale neck.

Soon, the bastard of Bolton’s screams quieted and became silent. And then, Nymeria would turn, and look at Sansa, though it felt strange.

For that moment in her nightmare, it felt as though Sansa _was_ Nymeria, and for the life of her, Sansa could not explain it. The vividness of her dream had woken her this morning before the dawn, and Sansa swore she had tasted the metallic tang of iron and copper on her tongue and palate and her poor stomach had lurched at the sensation. Needless to say, she spent the rest of the morning heaving and retching horribly and had come up onto the rooftop for fresh air.

Sansa’s ears caught the movement of footfalls just behind her, and the young redheaded She-Wolf of Winterfell perked up at the abrupt noise. They were much too light to belong to that of Ramsay Snow.

Sansa’s brows furrowed in a slight frown, wondering who it was that sought her out, up here in her place of solitude at the top of the world. She hoped it would be Lord Tyrion. Sansa tilted her head over her shoulder, her hands folded neatly in front of her flat abdomen.

She would not start showing the symptoms for another few weeks, though Maester’s Qyburn and Wolkan stated that she needed to rest.

That her pregnancy was in a most critical stage, where the next few weeks were the most important as it progressed, and to not do anything too rash that would cause her body in its changing state to become too taxed, thereby running the risk of possibly miscarrying it.

Sansa shuddered, squeezing her eyes tightly shut, feeling one of her hands drift instinctively over her abdomen and ground her teeth.

 _No_. She would not think about it. She couldn’t. Not now, after all, that had happened, the unbelievable amount of worrying she suffered….

Though she had no time to ponder it, as Sansa let out another tired sigh and raked her fingers through her auburn tresses, anticipating the stranger on the other side of that wooden door, whoever it was who had thought to come and look for her. She hoped it would be him.

Sansa let out a muffled squeak of surprise as the door that led out onto the rooftop terrace flung wide open, her cobalt-blue eyes widening in shock, the old oak door that rusted at the iron hinges rattling, and there stood her little lord husband, as she had been hoping he would.

Though something was wrong, and Sansa felt her heart sink to the pit of her stomach, as she was quick to recognize Tyrion was not alone.

Tyrion was looking thoroughly cross as he strode out onto the rooftop to greet his wife, who instinctively knelt into a crouch in order to plant a brief but affectionate kiss on the lips, stifling her urge to smirk into their kiss as husband and wife as she caught Ramsay Bolton spying.

“I…er…didn’t know that you would be here, milord,” Sansa finished rather lamely, standing upright to her full height, grumbling in low, disgruntled tones as she gathered fistfuls of her black gown and sank into an obedient and dutiful, albeit reluctant, curtsy towards Ramsay Snow. Her nervous gaze flitted from Tyrion, then to Ramsay.

Tyrion said nothing at first, which only intensified the embarrassment and confusion she felt at Ramsay’s presence on the roof.

What was it _exactly_ that he wanted of her? Was he still pursuing her, despite having received the news just yesterday that she was now with child, and thereby, the Bolton’s pending marriage scheme was null?

Sansa swallowed nervously and cast her gaze towards the door, closing her eyes for a moment and silently praying that someone else— _anyone_ , be it Ser’s Jaime, Bronn, or even Brienne—would come for her.

 _And Tyrion_ , her conscience reminded herself. Sansa let out a sigh and forced her gaze to remain fixated on that of the problem now staring her and her husband dead in the face with his listless blue eyes.

That problem’s name, of course, being Ramsay Bolton himself. This bastard of Bolton, Skinflayer they called him, given his hobby of flaying his prisoners, those poor souls, alive until they were naught but a broken mess of bones with no skin on them left, had managed to somehow find a way to sneak underneath her skin and make it _crawl_.

Sansa blinked owlishly at Ramsay Bolton, who merely proceeded to raise his eyebrows and smirk at her as if the man were enjoying some twisted, private intimate joke with himself, which began to unnerve her.

“Is there something milord husband and I can help you with, milord Bolton?” Sansa asked, thinking that his lack of response irked her, and Sansa was beginning to feel rather perturbed, given she was unable to figure out what exactly it was that Ramsay Bolton wanted.

His smirk widened, and Sansa was unable to repress the chill of fear that wafted its way down her spine, leaving her frozen by the edge of the rooftop. Sansa felt certain that she still had to be dreaming.

 _Maybe I have died_ , her mind almost sent her insane with this notion. This was bloody _it_ , wasn’t it? She had merely snuck out onto the roof of Winterfell in search of fresh air that might quell her sickness.

But instead, she had… _died_ , somehow, from the cold winds of winter, and Lord Tyrion, may the Seven bless his soul forever, had died somehow too, whether it be at the hands of Ramsay, the very devil himself now staring at her with an unnaturally wide grin etched upon his face, or by poison or some other means, had come to take her home.

 _Yes_. Her mind rationalized, and she gave a curt shake of her head to try to clear it, though her vision had begun to blur at its edges. _That must be it. I have died. I go now, and Lord Tyrion is set to take us home_. To see Mother and Father again, to that place of sweet relief in the afterlife where it was believed there was no pain or any suffering.

Sansa visibly flinched, her nose tickling as it fought back a sneeze as Ramsay Bolton said something to her, his voice distant, and muffled.

“The two of you,” Ramsay Bolton began in a low growl, looking more at Lord Tyrion than at her, and as Tyrion instinctively stepped in front of Sansa, currently the only barrier between Sansa and Ramsay, she swore she felt Tyrion stiffen, and the back of his hand rested gently on her kneecap before he let his hand fall loosely to his side, “are becoming something of a _problem_ ,” he snarled, no warmth in his voice.

 _Lies_ , her conscience piped up. _The man has no heart, no soul_. Sansa blinked and waited for the man to continue speaking, though she could no longer deny the throbbing of her pounding heart in her chest.

She had a sinking feeling in the pit of her churning stomach that whatever Ramsay Snow wanted of her, this bastard, it was _not_ good.

“You will _not_ touch my wife!” Tyrion barked, the edges of his voice clipped and hardened, and Sansa allowed her gaze to flit briefly towards his left hand as he removed a dagger from a sheath around his waist.

That looks like something Brienne or Bronn would have given him. Sansa blinked as she heard Lord Roose’s bastard speak again.

“On the contrary, Imp,” Ramsay growled, his cobalt blue orbs darkening, almost cerulean in color the angrier her grew. “I _can_ , and I _am_ ,” he snarled, and in one swift movement, he shot out his knee and sent the dagger in Tyrion’s hand flying, sending it sprawling across the rooftop’s ground, where the clattering of the weapon as it fell echoed.

Sansa swallowed thickly and the fact that Ramsay kicked out again at her husband and sent the poor man sprawling to the ground, leaving him with little to no time to react to the violent blow was enough to send her body in hard-racking sobs, but she tampered them back.

She _could_ not— _would_ not—give this bastard the satisfaction of allowing him to see her shed tears. Of that, she was loathed to do.

One found its way past her lips, despite her best efforts, escaping her throat in the form of little more than a pitiful, mewling whimper.

Ramsay made an odd little noise at the back of his throat that sounded like a snort as he pressed the edge of his own blade further against the shell of her throat. A trickle of blood wielded from the garish cut that formed. The knife sat precariously on Sansa’s skin, soft enough to not pierce her neck, hard enough to enforce the intended message.

The harsh metal should have been cold and raw against the skin of her neck, but her numb body could not feel anything except for the excruciating pain of the death that she knew was about to come for her.

Her throat held in a silver grasp, Tyrion struggling to get to his feet, coughing and gasping from the sheer force of the taller and stronger man’s blow, and all Sansa could do was stare lifelessly at the blue eyes that held the blade and a terrifying coldness she’d never seen before, not even in a vicious bastard like Ramsay Snow. Truly terrifying.

Trembling, sensing there would be no other way that did not end in some form of pain and misery for her and her husband, Sansa tipped her chin up into the sharpened edge, tempting the bastard to end her anguish, half hoping that Ramsay would. A small stream of blood trickled from the feeble cut Sansa could not feel, he did not flinch or remove his eyes from hers, a cruel smile stretched out across gaunt features. Her frozen heart shifted at the sight of his merciless gaze, her legs almost failing beneath her, but she forced herself to remain steady.

His steadfast grip on the polished weapon shifted, causing more crimson liquid to flow from the raw wound Ramsay had inflicted.

Sansa was not exactly sure what she had been expecting, but for Ramsay to close off the gap of space between them, so the tip of her nose was touching hers, and to cup her chin in his strong hand was not at all what she anticipated, and as a consequence, didn’t know what to do, or how to react. Should she scream? Attempt to bite him? Fight?

The young woman felt her heart skip a beat, beads of sweat beginning to form on her brow, starting to trickle down her temples.

All the while never averting her gaze from the smoldering, fathomless rage in her husband’s eyes as he finally, managed to situate himself upright and get to his feet. Though before Tyrion could do anything to stop Ramsay’s further torment of his wife, Sansa pulled back, noticing Bolton tilt his head at an angle as if to want to kiss her.

She raised her hand and placed two dainty but shaking fingers on Ramsay’s mouth, effectively silencing him. “ _No_ ,” she snarled angrily.

Ramsay stilled his movements and looked deep into Sansa Stark’s light, glistening blue eyes currently clouded with a fiery, hazy spark.

Sansa was no fool. She could tell the man was interested in whatever course of action she planned to take next, though she herself did not know, she _did_ know this: if she failed to act, she would die.

If she stood there and did nothing, the baby growing within her would die. Tyrion would die. They would all die, and as the last surviving Stark of Winterfell, at least as far as she knew, that she could not allow. Her only interest lay in finding a way to dispose of Bolton.

This bastard, this man, this snake in the night like she knew him to be. Sansa squeezed her eyes tightly shut against the pain, against the cruel look in the man’s lifeless blue eyes. Sansa felt her cracked lips part open slightly to speak, feeling a wavering as black spots danced in her vision, and she would have probably fallen off the roof of her family’s castle at that moment had she not felt a small but firm hand grip hers.

 _Tyrion_. She glanced down and silently tried to thank the dwarf with her eyes, hoping that it would be enough, though the moment between the husband and wife was short-lived as she heard _him_ growl.

Like the savage hound, the _dog_ she knew Ramsay Bolton to be.

“The _gods_ cannot save either one of you from _me_ ,” Ramsay snarled, a truly wild, unhinged look in his eyes, growing in the form of unshed, glistening moisture that was not exactly tears, chilling Sansa’s insides until she felt as though the blood that ran in her veins was ice.

Ramsay’s eyes narrowed at her, and as Sansa favored silence as the only apt response, he took that as his sign to continue speaking.

“You, milady, have been a _thorn_ in my side for far too long, little dove,” he snarled, pulling the edges of his lips back to reveal his gums.

The bastard’s eyes burned with such a wave of anger and intense hatred that an icy chill the length of her spine ran up the length of her back.

Sansa was no soldier, no female warrior like Arya was, not at all. But in this, Stark knew she could not afford to lose to this…mad _beast_. However, Sansa knew that she could not allow Lord Tyrion to come to harm. It was she that Ramsay wanted, and this knowledge would have to do. It was going to have to be enough. She let out a sigh.

 _May the gods forgive me and the seven bless and keep my soul_. She squeezed her eyes shut and shot a silent prayer to the heavens. “Then,” Sansa began slowly, straightening her posture, jutting her chin out defiantly, feeling the edge of Ramsay’s blade prick again at her skin, though she dared not avert her gaze from Bolton’s, though she longed to look into Tyrion’s eyes, to apologize and beseech his forgiveness for what she was about to do, but if it meant he would be spared, then fine.

So be it. She could live with such a death. Sansa emanated a tense exhale through her nose and glowered at the shell of a broken bastard in front of her. She could not lose her courage now, what little remained.

“You must remove it. Keep your forked tongue between your teeth, _snake_ ,” she spat, the anger dripping as poisoned venom from her tongue. Sansa turned her head to the side to cough as Ramsay’s curled fingers, resembling more like claws at this point, wound tightly around her throat, much as poison ivy would wind around a white marble pillar.

He squeezed. Hard. Ramsay’s image distorted, and Sansa no longer knew what course of action to take. She could hear Tyrion shouting, Ramsay’s labored and ragged breaths, hot and in her face.

A horrible, fatigued ringing filled her throbbing eardrums, and it was then that Sansa Stark there was no escaping Death’s clutches.

What was that thing that Arya always used to say? _What do we say to death when it comes knocking_?

“ _Not_ … _today_ ….” she whispered through gritted teeth, keeping her eyes squeezed shut. _I—I’m so sorry, Tyrion. I tried. Please…forgive me_.

Why? Why the bloody hell had it come to this, by the light of the gods? She should have done more to protect her husband, their baby.

There was a flash of silver, and then a haze of blinding white pain erupted behind her blue eyes, blinding her. She was sure she screamed.

Well, _someone_ screamed. Was it her? Tyrion? She did not know.

“Can you _feel_ it now, She-Wolf?” Ramsay barked, raising his voice a level in order to make himself heard over Tyrion and Sansa’s hollers. “The same suffocation that _you_ give me. _This_ is what you _do_ to me…”

Sansa blearily lifted her eyes, her lips parted, struggling to speak through her haze of immense, burning white-hot flaring pains. _Fire_.

Everything was _burning_. Why did it feel like her side _burned_?!?

Ramsay let out a growl and seized fistfuls of the young redhead’s gown, pulling her close. He wanted her to suffer, to elicit a response.

A shout, a scream, to grovel for mercy, to beg, plead for her life. But Sansa was not about to grant him that one wish. Not after this. Therefore, the only response Sansa saw fit to give him as visions of her life, fleeting though they were, passed before her eyes, was silence. Silence. Ramsay growled again with the effort to restrain himself from driving his own fingers straight through her heart with his bare hands. He would not need a knife for this. He wanted her to suffer.

If she would not come to him willingly, then he could, at the very least, assuage himself by ensuring that the Imp could not have her too. The fact that Stark was pregnant was the final shred upon which he hung his last shred of sanity, and Ramsay knew this was the way.

“The devil take you,” he growled, drowning out Tyrion’s screams, letting out another warning growl from the back of his chest.

By a miracle of the Light of the Seven, the Demon Monkey fell silent. Perhaps he sensed if he did not quiet, further harm would befall his wife. Well. He would be correct in that regard. Ramsay sneered.

“ _Scream_ , Stark,” Ramsay breathed, a lilt of excitement seeping into his tones at the thought of taking from the dwarf the one thing that he himself could not have. “ _Whine_ like the _wolf_ that you, Lady Sansa. Like the _bitch_ that I’ve always known you to be. Call for aid, darling.”

When still, Sansa did neither of those things, out of pure rancor just to spite him, this only fueled the fire under Ramsay’s skin further. His eyebrows came together in a frustrated desire to hear her scream. Just once. Though when she did not, Ramsay began to feel weakened by the Stark bitch’s lack of response, and it irked him greatly. There was no fear in her eyes as the light within those cobalt blue orbs dimmed rapidly, no desperation at feeling the warm blood seep through her side and stain her black gown. No begging plea on her face.

 _Nothing_. Ramsay snarled, thinking that he was now the one who was beginning to feel nervous and at a total loss for how to inspire fear.

Ramsay let out an animalistic, almost wolfish growl as his fingers tightened even harder around her throat, lifting her up slightly, squeezing. “I _could_ kill you. _If_ I _wanted_ , Stark. Don’t you _realize_ that?”

“Let…go…” Sansa gasped, arching her spine, desperately trying to look over Ramsay’s shoulder and meet Tyrion’s piercing green gaze.

Just one last time. Her fingers curled around Bolton’s hand, struggling futilely to pull his hand off the column of her throat, and failing. Her face suddenly felt unbearably hot, even in the chill of winter.

Suddenly, Sansa did not want to look at her husband in his eyes. She had failed Lord Tyrion. She had been inspired with a plan to rid themselves of this family of vipers, these snakes in the night, and she had not even been able to accomplish that in life. A sudden sent rent the otherwise silent late afternoon evening around them, save for Ramsay’s savage snarls and vicious grunts, and Lord Tyrion’s muffled pleas.

Sansa heard what sounded like the door banging open again on its hinges, and a muffled, startled yelp from someone—was it Brienne?

Due to the unceasing ringing in her ears, she could not tell, nor did she particularly care, though she felt Ramsay’s tight grip slacken slightly around the column of her throat, and she turned her head to the side to cough, gasping and heaving for sweet, precious, crisp, cold air.

“It’s over, milord Bolton. You are no great player of the game. I am,” Sansa managed to choke out hoarsely. “You—you have lost, sire.”

A flash of yellow, straw-colored hair appeared out of the corner of her vision and Sansa breathed out a shaky sigh of relief. It was Brienne.

“Y—you cannot _kill_ me, Ramsay. They’re—they’re watching. Sworn swords loyal to House Stark are watching you, _snake_. To allow harm to befall me any further proves your disloyalty, and spells your death, and if I am to die on this night by your hands, then let me take you _with_ me,” she spat.

She froze, her prying, grasping fingers ceasing their movements to pull the bastard’s thick, sausage-like fingers off of her throat as he slowly attempted to strangle Sansa to death, ignoring the blood from her wounds that were staining the palm of his hand as he held her waist. Ramsay threw back his head and let out a short, bark-like laugh, chilling Sansa’s blood to ice in her veins. Bloody hell.

This was _not_ good. It was _always_ a bad sign to hear Lord Roose Bolton’s bastard laugh. Though before Sansa’s cracked, bleeding lips could manage a pitiful cry for help, the familiar tuft of light curly brown hair appeared behind Ramsay, a dagger in his hands, poised to strike.

It was Tyrion. At that moment, however, before her little lord husband could so much as raise the weapon in his hand a fraction of an inch hire to jam the blade deep into the man’s hamstrings, not enough to mortally injure Bolton, but enough to incapacitate him, Ramsay loosened his ironclad grip on the column of Sansa Stark’s throat.

She let out a pained and choking gasp as Ramsay Snow moved with her in tow, stepping up onto the ledge of the roof’s terrace, and Sansa was momentarily awakened from her dazed and hazy stupor.

Sansa turned her head to the side and coughed, gasping for air.

“What a pleasure,” Ramsay growled, whispering his words like the serpent Sansa knew him to be in the shell of her left ear. “The Imp actually thinks he can save you, little dove. We wouldn’t want to ruin the _surprise_ , would we, darling?” he murmured, his voice a seductive purr.

She let out a pained, choking gasp from where it had rested over top his hands while trying to pry his hand off of her throat, their noses almost touching.

 _"What do you think you're doing_? _Let go of me_!" Sansa whisper-hissed through gritted teeth, wincing, ignoring Tyrion’s muffled shouting from behind them. Sansa felt Ramsay smile, and she did not bother to repress the chill of fear that traveled down her spine, her skin crawling as he leaned in to whisper his next statement into the shell of her ear, his voice dangerously low and somber. 

"I’m merely…making it worth the _show_ , She-Wolf. And let you go? A very poor choice of words, my darling, but if you truly insist. Then so be it."

And with that final statement, Sansa felt his ironclad grip around her arm loosen as he threw her over the ledge of Winterfell.

* * *

**A/N. Yeesh. It's not looking so good for Sanrion, but by the Light of the Seven, may she be rescued, somehow. I do love a good cliffhanger though! Stay tuned for more!:)**


	45. Melisandre-Sansa

** Melisandre-Sansa **

_The Red Witch_ , they called her, her eyes filled with an eerie apathy and bothered by the continuous draining of her strength. Out of a sense of habit, she felt her fingers drift towards the jewel about her neck, the pads of her fingertips ghosting along the surface of the broach she wore.

The frigid cold temperature of the North moved in to meet the warmth of the red woman's blood in her veins, her defense against such ice. The woman felt it wash over her skin, again and again, only to be met by the beating of her heart, this damned stubborn corded muscle that throbbed against the confines of her chest, yet again and again.

If she continued moving, spying, mediating like death on Lord Roose Bolton, proclaimed Warden of the North, for Stannis Baratheon, her king, then she would win against the elements of nature herself. The red woman knew the ones who stopped were the ones who freeze. The estate of Winterfell was filled with an ominous brittle silence that caused goose prickles to break out on her arms, and the fine little hairs on the back of the red woman's neck to stand upright in agitation.

There was a shriek from the trees that the red witch knew was a branch twisting under the sheer weight of the ice. The breaths that left her partially cracked lips were vapor in front of her mouth, her nose red. Never mind that the tip of it was numb.

She continued walking.

The air around the cloaked woman shrouded in a thick red cape was positively frigid as what was left of the leaves on the trees in the North, very few, as it turned out, rode the bitter Northern breeze.

Melisandre moved along the edge of the northern wall of the illustrious castle. She had her ways of moving undetected if she wished.

Now was one of those times. Winterfell rested peacefully through the late night, and not a single voice or sound was heard at this late hour, aside from the swaying creaks of a few tall, dark oak trees that bordered the edge of Winterfell's estate.

Melisandre frowned, repressing a tremor that went down her spine as her ears perked up at the faint sounds of what sounded like muffled shouting, soon carried away by the haphazard winter breeze that tousled her hair, blowing back the hood of her cloak and pinking her cheeks, numbing them until the red woman could no longer feel her face and all semblance of warmth fled her.

A feeble ringing filled the sorceress's fatigued ears, and as the calm yet slowly picking up wind ruffled her hair gingerly, pushing the locks of hair away from her face as Melisandre lowered the hood of her red cloak, her thin lips held a rigid line that deepened by the second the more she focused on the strange noise coming from above her head. A shouting.

Furrowing her thin arched brows in a frown, she craned her neck to the heavens, the skies above her dull and grievous, promising a storm.

The Red Witch narrowed her eyes until they were mere slits, huffing in frustration, and lowered her gaze as she stood in front of the desolate castle of Winterfell, home to the family of vipers, the Bolton's.

The very same family that whispered a threat to Stannis Baratheon's ambitions, who hindered his mission and their Lord of Light's.

"By the Light of the Seven, spare me, if you listen and heed my words, this had better be worth my efforts tonight. I do not appreciate being made a _fool_ of," the red woman murmured darkly under her breath, taking a moment to toss her locks back over her shoulders as she lowered the hood of her red cloak, wisps of her long hair fluttering in the frigid winter air.

The Red Woman opened her mouth to speak further, to spew black putrid curses from her tongue that were she in polite company, the witch would have been stared at for uttering such foul language here in this nest of vipers, though she was cut off by a sudden sound, so strange and unfamiliar to her that it froze the very blood in her veins, which she thought odd.

It was a low, soft, heart-wrenching sob. A woman's voice.

And it was, quite unmistakably, coming from in front of her. Very calmly and deliberately, feeling as though for a moment, her soul had separated from her body and she was watching herself move from afar, Melisandre stepped forward towards the eastern corner of the castle, her cloaked form casting shadows as she moved off to the side discreetly.

The Red Witch's ears perked up as the small sound reached her eardrums again. It was a very small sound; a sound so faint she wasn't even sure she had heard it at first. She strained her ears, listening for more sounds.

She could plainly see it, no matter how quiet it was, and it wasn't just the creaking of tree limbs cracking under the weight of their ice or any other sound of nature. No, this was a _human_ noise.

A whimpering cry of pain laced with just a twinge of fear and anger.

It was a sound the Red Witch recognized all too well. Melisandre narrowed her eyes and stared into the distance, trying to see any indication of whoever was making the noise that whoever was injured was nearby. She still only saw copious mounds of snow and ice, accompanied by a freezing mist, but the sound nevertheless continued, so she did her best to follow it.

When the snow first hit earlier, it had been hard and unforgiving. Against it, the peoples' bodies bent and snapped like the fragile beings the Red Witch knew them to be. The cloaked woman heard it again, and for a second time, her ears perked up as her blurred vision from squinting so hard to avoid snow getting into her eyes as the snow raged war on the elements, finally landed on the figure that continued to make the noise.

Swallowing down hard past the lump in her throat, the Red Witch approached the figure, a churning feeling in the pit of her stomach twisting as coils in her guts as she did so, already knowing whom she would find.

She had foreseen it and it was why she had come on behalf of her King Stannis. Such a prize to be left abandoned, injured though it was, could not be allowed to occur. Stannis's prize on the frozen ground at the Red Woman's feet was almost lifeless. _Lifeless_. At first, Melisandre thought the last surviving Stark woman to be dead, though the moment she knelt beside the crumpled figure and put a hand on the She-Wolf's arm, she almost reeled back in surprise. _Not dead_ , she thought, biting the wall of her cheek. It was still warm. Reaching out with unsteady fingers, she held them close to the young woman's cracked and slightly parted, bleeding lips.

_There_. A breath. It was faint, and dying the longer she lay here, but it was there. The Red Woman moved her hand back and continued her initial assessment of Sansa Stark, the Imp's bride, the devil's lover, some say, wondering what King Stannis would do with his prize once she took her back with her. She did not belong here. Her auburn hair was scattered in multiple places, stained with dried crimson from where her head had struck the stones; crimson. Her jaded blue irises were open, holding such sadness.

She bit the wall of her cheek as she pondered her options all the while scanning the young woman for any further noticeable sign of injury.

A broken wrist, judging by the way it was twisted at an odd angle, and the heat the appendage emanated was more than enough of a sign.

Her hands were covered in black and purple bruises, her knuckles bleeding, suggesting a skirmish of some kind.

_One of them, probably Bolton's little vicious bastard threw the young Stark girl off the roof of the castle_ , she mused.

Her shoulder looked to be dislocated and would need setting, in time. Though her most notable wound and the ones that were cause for immediate concern were a wound at her side, near her ribcage, seeping its crimson life force through the thick fabric of her azure blue velvet dress.

The other, she had a suspicion she knew of it, judging by the way the auburn-haired beauty's fingers were moving in almost a spasmodic rhythm over her flat abdomen. Rumors, whispers floated throughout the North of the Stark girl's pregnancy, that she was siring a babe with the little dwarf.

Melisandre snorted, knowing the Stark girl could not hear her as she felt her brows knit together in a quandary. She really _was_ a pretty little thing, any fool with a pair of eyes and a cock between their legs could see.

_This woman is the gods' masterpiece_ , Melisandre thought wildly. She had a kind of understated beauty, even in a state that hovered on brink of death.

Perhaps it was because Sansa Stark of Winterfell and of the North was so disarmingly unaware of her prettiness. Her imperfections made her perfect. There was a shyness to her, even in her state of unconsciousness.

A hesitation in her body movements. Her pale skin cut from pearls was like silk over a glass and Sansa Stark radiated an intelligent beauty. A true prize for King Stannis indeed.

She felt her eyes widen slightly as the limp creature sprawled on the snow before she opened her eyes even wider and drew in a frigid breath of cold air the second Melisandre put her hand over the young girl's heart.

The girl's eyes fluttered open faintly, swiveling around in confusion before resting on Melisandre's face, struggling to take in the details of the Red Woman's face, as most of her features remained shrouded under the thick hood of her crimson cloak, hiding away from the garish light of day.

They rested on her face after several long moments of looking around, struggling to take in sight of her surroundings and what happened.

The Red Witch heard the Stark girl let out a guttural moan of pain so faint, she thought the noise was carried away in the bitter winds of winter, however, it came again as the women's gazes met and locked briefly.

The icy blueness generated a feeling like Melisandre was being pulled into a lake of frozen emotions. It was like all the myriad shades of blue swirled together to form a whirlpool of apprehension. She could tell by her body language that the Stark woman did not like her, and those flickering azure orbs confirmed her thoughts, though the Red Witch did not fault it.

She supposed she would be confused too, to wake up and find a she-stranger hovering over her while she was injured beyond the point of forming a coherent sentence, much less a cohesive thought in her mind.

The emotion in Lady Sansa Stark's eyes was fathoms deep, yet they carried the warmth and life of the sunlit surface. They had a thousand hues of blue and a small touch of hazel radiating in softly swooping arcs of confusion as she opened her lips even further, struggling to say something.

As the younger girl stared up at the Red Witch silently, Melisandre felt something tighten in her chest, an unfamiliar, foreign feeling to her.

The girl's eyes were that beautiful blue-green hue, filled with a pain and grief the likes of which she supposed she could begin to comprehend.

Strangely moved with pity, and though she longed for nothing more than to shove aside this unhelpful emotion to the recesses of her mind, the Red Woman knelt and laid a hand on her shoulder, careful to be mindful of any unseen injuries.

" _Come back_ ," she whispered into the winter air, hoping her voice carried so that the Stark girl could hear and heed her call. It was time to take the girl to her king. Let Stannis decide what was to be done to his prize once he had inherited the final key to the North.

The girl's eyelids slowly drifted shut again as Melisandre pressed the flat of her palm squarely on the girl's chest, where her heart was, closing her eyes, stilling her breathing almost to a complete standstill in concentration.

_Come back._

_Come back…_

* * *

The world had teeth, and it could bite you with them anytime it wanted. This had just been proven to her when Ramsay Snow had unceremoniously thrown her over the edge of Winterfell's roof. Death was _not_ kind. Sansa knew that. It snatched where it could, taking people who were far too young and far too good, and before their time. People like her brother. Her mother and father,

It didn't pretend to care or distinguish. The hooded vale of death had hung over the world for a long time, always threatening. It had never touched Sansa Stark quite so close. Death had ripped away a part of her, the part of her that was most loved.

Sansa blinked, her throat feeling on fire as it hollowed and constricted, as she forced her eyesight, blurred at the edges though it was, to focus on the red-cloaked figure in front of her, though her heart drenched by fear, its beats slowly faded within its cage in her chest.

Everything was fading into the abyss. The Red Woman's eyes on her, burning coals with no shape or form. Was this one of the new gods? A goddess come to spirit her away to whatever existence followed this physical realm?

Numb, Sansa could not feel anything around her. Eyes struggling to move, she looked at the hooded figure's face, twisting and warping itself through her blending vision. Paralyzed in fear, she felt her breath leave her.

Drained of strength, Sansa's lids suddenly felt heavy, and she knew she lacked the strength and the resolve to try to continue to stay awake. But that did not stop her from trying.

_Tyrion_ , she thought wildly. _Have to see…Tyrion…Theon…_

Slowly, Sansa tried to get up but quickly realized how futile it was when she had to bite her lip to keep from crying out in pain. Sharp pains lanced through her head, right wrist, and her side as colorful spots of a myriad of colors flashed in front of her fading vision.

It felt like her whole body had been beaten and every slight twitch or spasm of a muscle caused some muscle or bone in her body to ache, though when she tried to move her arms, they ached.

No matter how she moved them, they were almost impossibly numb, save for her wrist, which felt on fire and when she did attempt to move it, it sent a stinging sensation of white-hot, flaring pain up her arm and down the length of her spine.

She shuddered, clenching her teeth so hard her molars locked as she squeezed her eyes shut. This stranger in front of her was murmuring something, though in entirely too low a tone for Sansa to discern what was being said.

Her pain was an icy wind choking the breath from her very lungs and making a noose around the column of her throat. Its savage, bitter blasts cut right to her bones and gripped Sansa's brain in its freezing claws. Her heart constricted in its wake as if not sure if it should go on beating. Sansa felt herself drift into consciousness. And then back out.

The white world of Winterfell and its ice-covered grounds around her and this red shrouded she-stranger kneeling in front of her, a hallucination of a goddess though she was, was a blur, and random images seemed to float aimlessly around in the pool of her thoughts, as though they were being blown about by a fierce storm wind.

A hard tap on her shoulder momentarily brought Sansa back to the outside world, but after a second, she felt herself once again become lost. She could feel somebody trying to look at her, staring at her dead in the eyes, this tall Red Woman, this witch.

But Sansa could simply not keep her focus. Confusion blossomed in her heart and she knew that sooner or later, she would need to wake up.

To stare whatever new, twisted, warped reality this was in the face. But for now, she lay down her heavy head and retreated into wallowing blackness, the strange woman's voice echoing in her throbbing eardrums.

_Come back…_

The voice grew fainter, muffled, as if underwater. Sansa could feel the tiredness inside of her like a worm, a blood-sucking leech, slowly but deliberately draining what little was left of her precious lifeforce.

She was alive, but not really living. She heard, but not really listening. Even behind her closed eyelids, shapes and colors blurred together, merging into hazy darkness that was, for now, Sansa's new line of sight.

Sansa shivered as the cold licked at her face and crept underneath her dress, spreading across her frigid skin like the lacy tide on a frigid winter beach. The cold that had seemed mild at first now numbed Sansa's face and extremities. What residual heat she had absorbed in the castle earlier was gone, it had been her buffer, but unwittingly she had squandered it, believing her thick cloak, dress, and boots equal to the task of preserving her body heat. With each breath, rattling, pained though they were, more heat rose in puffs of white vapor, with each gust of the wind more heat dissipated into the whiteness, and she knew it was futile to try.

Her eyesight blurred, but not because tears were welling up, though they were.

Everything became fuzzy as she struggled to open her eyes, and then she saw nothing at all. Her consciousness was floating through an empty space filled with a horrible kind of static. Throughout this inky space, her heartbeats pounded loudly, echoing in her ringing eardrums, alongside fading pleas for help. And then the feeling in her body drained.

Sansa Stark was barely aware of another figure coming to stand beside the Red Woman, a black shadow, it appeared as to Sansa in her vision which ebbed and flowed as black mists in her hazy vision, and lifting her in a pair of very strong arms, supporting her head as it lolled back against the crook of a firm elbow. She allowed herself to succumb to sleep.

All went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So that's that. I wasn't originally going to bring Stannis Baratheon and his armies into this story but then I thought, how else is Sanrion going to get the nest of vipers out of Winterfell, so it looks like Stannis (though I hate his character personally) is going to be making at least one appearance in this little AU fic of mine. The next chapter is back to Tyrion's POV still up on that rooftop. Poor man, sad Ramsay threw his lady wife off the damn roof!


	46. Tyrion

** Tyrion **

In his intense silence, he somehow screamed with his whole body. His green eyes wide with horror, his mouth open and rigid, his chalky face pallid, gaunt and immobile, his fists clenched tightly with blanched knuckles and the nails digging deeply into the palm of his hand as he looked over the edge of Winterfell's rooftop.

The pain at what had just happened to his wife was an icy wind choking the very breath from his lungs, making a noose around his neck, an ocean of unknowable depths, swift currents, and lurking beasts, though the only beast that needed slaying stood towering over him, a twisted grimace on the boy's features.

The wretched little miserable _shit_ , Ramsay Snow, the bastard of Roose Bolton that Lord Tyrion now knew was tenfold worse than his own nephew, Joffrey, the Light of the Seven bless his soul not, loitered around inside of him while he helplessly tried to shut out Ramsay Bolton's last words to Sansa.

_…making it worth the show_ …

Tyrion stood there at the edge of the rooftop, tears pricking at the edges of his eyes, wretched hot tears marring, stinging, and blurring his vision, pale hands trembling with fear and sadness. It had happened so fast, he had not the time to act until the very last second. Tyrion had lurched forward and tried to grab hold of Sansa's hand before she fell completely over the side of the castle.

He was a fraction of a second too late, and just as the tips of his fingers brushed against hers, gravity came into effect and tore Sansa out of his reach.

The scream that poured unchecked from his lips, it made the hair stand straight up on the back of his neck as his skin crawled. It was the loudest most piercing scream he had ever heard. It sounded like a scream of wild panic. A scream of mass hysteria, of disbelief, bordering on terror.

Tyrion leaned over the edge of the railing, trying to see what he could, watching in horror as her petite frame descended to the ice-coated courtyard below, into the thick of the storm, and then he couldn't even see her at all.

At first, his mind couldn't comprehend what just happened.

It was like a vexing of the soul for what Tyrion felt was not human, it was twisted and distorted, but it was something strong.

It burned so bad like fire lacing his veins and creeping up his spine, his skin was a sore looking red, but all Tyrion could feel was desire; the desire to hate. He was intoxicated with emotion he had no intention of ever feeling, the acidity of it was residing in his twisting and churching poor stomach waiting to be spat out of his mouth in foul and vulgar words that he knew he would be stared at for saying, except Tyrion wasn't going to say them, bloody _hell_ no.

Tyrion knew he was going to screech them with every ounce of breath that dwelled in his lungs. He would curse the old gods and the new until his dying breath if it meant there was a fool's chance of them bringing Sansa back.

_Let me be the fool, then_. Red. Everything went red. Lord Tyrion's vision blurred as a flame curled in the pit of his stomach. His brain went on overdrive as it picked every moment that he'd spent suffering under Bolton's iron fist.

The memories weighed down on Tyrion but instead of breaking even more, what was left of his heart had turned ice cold and slunk into the shadows as his brain took complete control. The flames in his stomach rose up to his chest and crawling through his veins, took over the rest of his wretched body.

The world on the rooftop of Winterfell turned into a blur, and so did all the sounds. The taste. The smell. Everything was just fucking gone. She was _gone_. Tyrion paused, trying to hold back the strange feelings rumbling deep within the pit of his chest, but he just couldn't. A lone tear traced down his cheek, and just like that, the floodgates opened. Emotions swirled with the ice clinging in the air as streaks of fire burned his cheeks.

Each new wave a hot trail of agony as his slim shoulders shook in each rake of emotion through his frame. The fire of shame and anger burned just under his skin and a deep emptiness filled his heart as the sentiments brewed over and boiled past the seams he could no longer hold together.

Breathing hitched as his knees grew weak as he slumped to the ground. He had been trying to block out his screams, but now it was impossible, the noise ripping his already broken heart into fragments. A series of memoirs rolled through his head and flitted through the front of his mind, and even when Tyrion squeezed his eyes tightly shut in an effort to stop it happening, it was no use, and he let them come anyways as they filled his tormented mind. Father, Cersei, Jaimie, Tysha, Shae, and Sansa. Sweet, innocent Sansa. His wife. Mother to their future children.

_Dead_ now, because of this little vicious bastard cunt in front of him that did not deserve to draw breath when his wife had undoubtedly just taken her last before she was thrown off the rooftop. Even behind closed lids like this, Sansa stood silently watching Tyrion, her pale face so sullen it sent a chill down Lord Tyrion's spine. Her eyes seemed to pierce and penetrate right through his heart and soul, mouthing his name, but Lord Tyrion could not hear Sansa's voice, though he saw her lips move. His eyes flung wide open and a fresh steady stream of tears rolled down his cheeks.

When he did manage to regain some small semblance of composure, what little good it did him, his voice shook, though his intended message was quite clear.

" _Kill. Him_. Do it now."

The command escaped his chest as a low growl, his chest practically vibrating from the sound as he spat the command to Brienne of Tarth in a rough, coarse, and hoarse voice that did not at all sound like himself. Sansa's sworn sword and friend gave a curt nod, signaling to her lord that she had heard his command and unsheathed Oathkeeper from its hilt, though Ramsay did not avert his gaze down towards the weapon in Brienne's gloved hands, but rather, seemed fixated behind him on something, and Tyrion felt his blood turn to ice in his veins as a familiar droll baritone voice cut through the air, the voice carrying on the winds of winter.

" _Stop_."

Lord Roose Bolton had joined the group on the rooftop. No doubt one of the serving wenches had alerted him to the ungodly commotion on the castle's rooftop. His voice was like the magma chamber of a volcano, deep, but filled entirely with molten rock. His voice could be powerful enough to make your bones feel like they were vibrating.

Lord Roose strode forward shrouded in a thick black cape, his gloved hands folded neatly behind his back, a neutral expression on his lined and pallid features. The Warden of the North seemed as though he were sleepless, as evident by the crumbling of his skin and the dark purple bags clinging underneath his eyelids.

"What is the _meaning_ of this?" he barked hoarsely. His voice was taut, the skin around his brows pulled tight with rancor.

"In my defense, I was left… _unsupervised_ , Father," Ramsay growled, spitting his words as though they were poison that had settled and lingered on his tongue as a bone-chilling grin split across his pallid face, his listless gaze fixated on something behind Tyrion, and Lord Tyrion did not need to turn around to sense the temperature in the air drop another ten degrees that he knew had nothing to do with the damned fucking cold air of bloody winter.

Nevertheless, Tyrion looked, blinking rapidly as hot tears continued to sting and blur at the edges of his vision, threatening to blind him wholly as his lungs, starved for breath, gasped in oxygen and it burned them with just the effort to continue breathing, which felt pointless now that Sansa was gone.

The bastard boy's father stood militarily stiff and rigid behind Lord Tyrion and next to Ser Brienne of Tarth, his face a perfect mask of calm serenity and one of perfect impassive indifference, the same icy blue stare his son possessed, though right now, the Warden's pale gray orbs burned with fathomless, smoldering rage as Lord Roose took in the strange sight before him, his mind working quickly to put together why there were so many people out on the rooftop of Winterfell, and Lord Roose Bolton's nostrils flared in utter agitation.

Lord Roose's gray eyes took in the unusual scene of Winterfell's rooftops with one fell swoop, his gaze hawklike and stone cold as he came to the realization that the She-Wolf was not among them. "Where is Sansa Stark?"

It did not take a scholar to tell that the Warden of the North was fucking livid. The boy had become a disappointment to him throughout the years.

"D—Dead," Lord Tyrion croaked in a hoarse voice barely above the whisper. " _He_ killed my wife. I would now watch your vicious little bastard die at my own command, Lord Bolton," he snarled, pointing a shaking finger towards Ramsay, whose face remained unmoved by the display of hatred. "You would be wise not to prevent it happening, milord."

Roose knew he should have killed the sow who had birthed him and left the babe with the woman's dead husband's corpse, left it there to starve to death for all he cared. His gray eyes flitted down towards Lord Tyrion's tear-stricken, ashen face and out of the corner of his eyes took notice of Ser Brienne of Tarth.

The wench was practically growling, and her entire body shook with the effort to restrain herself from killing his bastard son while in Roose's presence.

He knew he did not even need to ask for the truth, not from Ramsay.

Nevertheless, Roose found himself peering over the edge of the rooftop, having to squint his eyes in the vain effort to see the ground in the midst of the white blanket of snow and ice that coated the grounds. He saw no corpse.

No Sansa laying lifeless on the packed ground of snow and ice, but… Roose furrowed his greying brows as they came together in quandary, swearing that he saw the briefest flickers of someone cloaked in a red cape walk away from Winterfell, though the second he blinked, the apparition had fled from his sight.

A muscle in Roose's strong jaw twitched as he looked towards his bastard son into the boy's cobalt blue orbs dangerously flashing as he met his lord father's gaze. His eyes did not lie, those eyes of Ramsay Snow's that looked back at him every time he thought to pass by a mirror. Roose let out a snarl.

"You attempted to force yourself onto Lady Stark, and when the girl rejected your advances, you proceeded to fling her from this rooftop, thus committing a _crime_ on my lands, an act of treason punishable by hanging."

Roose's hands at his side un-clenched and clenched into fists, Lord Tyrion noticed, as if he weren't quite sure what to do with them. "You claim to be my son," he growled through gritted teeth, his gaze darting from Ramsay's to Brienne of Tarth, the fingers of her sword hand twitching as they itched to draw her weapon and slay the bastard of Bolton where he stood, this Skinflayer.

"I _am_ your son," Ramsay spat back almost instantly, the indignation prominent in his tone, though Tyrion noticed his bottom lip quivering badly.

"You have despoiled our family name, Ramsay, you have _murdered_ our last stronghold to maintaining our grip on the North. _Without_ Sansa Stark, the Bolton family no longer has a claim to the North," Roose answered by way of response, no semblance of warmth or any emotion other than contempt in his deep baritone voice as he calmly stepped in between Tyrion and Brienne, closing off the gap of space between himself and his son in three swift strides.

He leaned in so that the tip of his slender and marginally crooked nose was practically touching his bastard son's as Lord Roose seized a fistful of the boy's jerkin and cloak and shook Ramsay slightly. "You are lucky I do not take you down to the dungeons and flay you _myself_ for what you have just done, boy."

Lord Roose spat his words through clenched teeth and rooted jaw, and his voice was so dangerously soft and quiet, it was a wonder Tyrion could hear it at all. Tyrion had to practically crane his neck upward to scan Lord Roose's face for a further emotional reaction, and as he did so, the uncomfortable silence hung in the air like the suspended moment before a falling glass shatters on the ground.

He expected the man, this ruthless Warden, to fly into a rage, to take his bastard born from the cunt of another woman down to the dungeons and make good on his promise and flay the boy alive until there was naught but an inch of skin left on his bones before throwing them to his precious hell hounds.

But Lord Bolton did none of those things. Out of the corner of his eye, he stiffened and bit the wall of his cheek as he noticed Ser Brienne of Tarth take a cautious half-step forward, a look of incredulity and uncertainty in her eyes.

" _No_." The command escaped Roose's lips as a low warning growl. "He is _my_ problem, wench. He would be _mine_ to work on. I will not have his blood on _your_ hands, _knight_ ," he snapped in a mocking tone. "Stand down, girl."

Lord Tyrion heard Brienne of Tarth let out a vicious-sounding snarl of her own, though she relented and felt a shift within herself as she looked down to her lady's husband for confirmation, who offered a reluctant but complying nod. "Do as he says." Though even just forcing his consent from his tongue as his tongue practically refused his words' release caused Tyrion to think that someone had placed a gag on his mouth, for his tongue felt thick in his mouth.

Brienne offered a stiff nod of displeasure at Lord Tyrion's command, never one to argue with a direct order from her liege, swiveling her head back around to regard the father and bastard son, waiting with bated breath as Lord Roose, still seizing onto fistfuls of the boy's cloak and clothing underneath, stepped even further towards the edge of the roof.

How in the seven fucking hells did it ever come to this?! His wife was _dead_ , he himself was now sure to be summoned back to King's Landing to await the inquest and judgment and a trial for the murder of Tywin Lannister.

Though before Tyrion could demand and shout at the top of his lungs that Lord Roose says his piece and get bloody fucking on with it, that nothing was going to stop the execution of his bastard moronic son for what he'd done, something silver glistened out of Tyrion's peripheral vision in Roose's hand.

Lord Tyrion drew in a sharp breath of frigid cold air that pained his lungs as Ramsay Bolton barely had time to dodge the blade as it hurled towards his abdomen with a surprisingly deft and nimbleness, though by whatever grace the gods had seen fit to bless the bastard boy with, Ramsay managed to wrap his hands around his father's wrists, staving the dagger reaching its intended target.

_Him_. Ramsay's hand began to shake violently as the knife quivered in his hold, though Lord Roose's strength outmatched his own despite the man's old age. His lips trembled as he looked into the listless, pale gray orbs of the man Ramsay had once sought to call Father, and for Lord Roose to fucking call him his son in return. Just _once_. The man's eyes were no longer filled with eased confidence and cold indifference.

Now, when Ramsay Snow looked into that of his lord father's eyes, all that was displayed towards his bastard son was hate.

A smoldering, fathomless rage had darkened the man's orbs to almost a cerulean hue in color and Ramsay felt his lips part open to speak, though what words he had meant to say to Father immediately died on his tongue as the knife in Lord Roose Bolton's hand met flesh, soft and pudgy, and made a satisfying squish as the tip of Roose's blade sank deep enough to make his victim scream.

The Warden of the North twisted the blade in his deft hands, all the while sinking it deeper and deeper into the Skinflayer's stomach, longing to see the boy's intestines spill out onto the rooftop before him.

A fitting end for a flayer. The accursed wretch's skin was torn to shreds as the knife in Roose's firm grip rotated, the sound of Ramsay's muscles and nerves being gouged growing even louder. Lord Tyrion scrunched his nose but did not look away, despite rolling nausea twisting his stomach into knots.

Then, without any warning, Roose jerked it all the way into the boy's back, until the shiny metal had disappeared inside Ramsay and penetrated him fully, and the black handle was pushing against the broken bastard's bleeding skin. His cry was a brilliant sound, guttural chokes mixed with an agonized roar.

Lord Roose did not bother to stop the twisted smirk that tugged the edges of his lips upward as he pulled the blade out of his now deathly white victim.

Ramsay sank to his knees, continuing to scream, convulsing, and trembling like a rabid animal and thick blood flowing freely from the gaping chest cavity now in the boy's back. The cascade of the bastard's life force gushed out in all directions, scarlet liquid squirting up all over Roose. The Warden of the North turned away as Snow's pleas of mercy became quieter, the sweet tang of blood-tingling in his flaring nostrils, though one word caught his attention.

"…please…Father…please…"

It was the use of the word 'please' that did it, causing the breaking part of the Warden's patience. Swelling of his veins in his neck began to protrude and throb. Lord Tyrion watched in stunned silence as Lord Roose's head whiplashed sharply upwards at the sound of his bastard son begging for an ounce of mercy, and the dwarf could tell by the hardening expression in the man's lean face that the little bastard had just sealed his grave by pleading.

"You threw the Stark girl off the _roof_. And _now_ you would say 'please,' that I grant you mercy when you did not offer the same courtesy to her? I think not," Lord Roose growled, swiveling at the waist, and spitting at his son's feet.

The Warden of the North looked towards Tyrion for confirmation, and Tyrion could not be sure, but he was sure, yes, he was sure, that Lord Bolton's expression softened, even for a fraction of a second, as the men locked gazes.

Ramsay, as the light slowly faded from his eyes, blood spurting from the edges of his mouth as he practically choked to death on his own blood-forming at the back of his throat welling up into his esophagus from his stomach, like a stupid fucking fish, gaped at his father with wide, unblinking eyes, bulging.

" _Foolish_ boy. You call yourself my son. You are no son of mine." Roose hissed through gritted teeth, kneeling into a crouch, and cupping his son's chin in his hand, forcing the bastard to look him dead in the eye. Well, soon he would be all the way dead, though not before Lord Roose said his piece. "I should have had one of my soldiers _drown_ you in one of our wells or taken you out into the woods and left you as food for the _wolves_ the moment you emerged from that cunt's womb. You _killed_ our key to our stronghold here in the North, and all for your love of theatricals, boy."

There was a beat, a pause, and Tyrion could tell by the way Ramsay Snow's chest slowed that his heart rates were slowing down. He was dying.

But Roose was not at all finished. "What was that you said to Lady Stark just before you threw her to her death?" The Warden of the North feigned innocence as he seized tufts of the boy's cloak and jerkin, violently pulling him to his feet, ignoring Ramsay's pointed, guttural, and agonized cry of pain. "Ah."

A light ignited in Lord Roose Bolton's pale gray orbs that sent a tremor down Tyrion's spine, though he would be loathed to admit it to anyone that the man intimidated him. " _Yes_ ," he drawled in a smooth and languid tone. "I remember it now. You were, how did you put it? _Making it worth the show_."

He looked towards Lord Tyrion and Brienne, and Roose strained his ears for more sounds as he swore he heard another pair of footfalls climbing the stairs that led out onto the rooftop, no doubt to see what all the commotion was.

Lord Roose let out a haggard sigh and sanguinely, slowly, and methodically swiveled his head back around to regard his bastard son, dying in his iron grasp. "Well. The _audience_ is here. My _son_. Let's _give_ them the _show_ they came for, _yes_?" Roose growled, leaning in so the tip of his nose was touching Ramsay's. Without so much as another word to his bastard son, Lord Roose allowed his ironclad grip on the material of his son's cloak and clothing to slacken, and he watched coldly as his son fell from his grasp as Ramsay Bolton, bastard of Lord Roose Bolton, the Skinflayer, that monster, that demon, that snake in the night, shared in Sansa Stark's fate and plummeted to his death.

Tyrion was hardly aware of his light green eyes widening in shock and an immense sense of relief as the vicious bastard cunt who'd murdered his wife fell. Never before had he realized how much time was like water. That it could pass slowly, a drop at a time, even freeze, or rush by in a blink.

In this slow time, as it felt as though time itself had frozen as his mind struggled to process that Lord Roose Bolton had just murdered his own bastard son in an act of retaliation against what Ramsay Snow had done to his wife, the coldness became colder and the colors around him were almost blindingly brighter now. All the while his insides felt as if nothing were there, nothing to have need of anything at all.

Tyrion swallowed down hard past the lump in his throat, trying in vain to fight down the salty liquid that threatened to escape his lids. He flinched as a figure nudged beside him, and he recognized it to be the Warden as Lord Roose stared down at Lord Tyrion, his pallid eyes unabashed.

Tyrion expected Lord Roose to speak, to offer some words of consolation, though before the Warden of the North could part his lips open to speak, a shadow appeared from the entrance that led from the stairwell out to the roof.

Lord Tyrion felt his head whiplash sharply towards the left, so fast and hard that he winced as he felt a surge of white-hot flaring pain as a muscle in his neck pulled at the sudden exertion, causing him to bite down on his tongue.

He tasted the metallic tang of iron on his tongue and palate and as he turned his head to the side to spit out a mouthful of blood, he heard a voice. For a moment, a surge of hope, just a flicker against the bitter wind, ignited in his chest, hoping that somehow, by a miracle of the gods, Sansa had survived her fatal fall. But that hope immediately died as the figure came into focus.

A faceless, nameless Bolton soldier, a sellsword. Not one he recognized. Lord Tyrion stiffened and felt his hand instinctively drift to the hilt of his dagger now returned to its rightful place in its sheath as the soldier bent his right knee.

Lord Tyrion knew without a shadow of doubt in his mind that something was wrong as his inquisitive eyes assessed the Bolton sellsword's condition. He saw how a muscle twitched involuntarily at the corner of his right eye, his mouth forming a rigid grimace as he stared pointedly at Lord Roose's black leather boots, not wanting to meet the man's eyes, beads of sweat on his brow.

"Speak." The command left Lord Roose's lips as an impatient bark.

When the soldier finally found his voice, it was strained and stammering.

"F—forgive me, milord, b—but…L—Lady Sansa's body, it's… _gone_."

* * *

**A/N: Even after 7 re-writes of writing Ramsay's death over and over again, I'm STILL not satisfied with it, thinking he deserved a way more violent and gory death, but considering his father just literally gutted him, I guess it's enough? Eh. Whatever. I was gonna have Brienne off him originally, but decided, in the end, it should be his lord father, and in Roose's mind, at least what I think he was thinking when I wrote this scene, at least, was that he deserved no less than what he just did to Sansa.**


	47. Shireen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So I know Shireen was like, 15, I think, when she died on the show (a death I HATE Stannis for) but for the purposes of this AU, I'm making her around 11 to give her that sense of naivety and childlike curiosity. Plus, I really like the little princess and wanted to do kind of a light-hearted chapter of sorts to break up all the heavy lol.

**Shireen**

Any parent in Westeros would be able to tell you that it was almost neigh impossible to repress the curiosity of a child. Children will be children, after all. Some parents learned this more quickly than others, and they considered themselves wise not to discourage the tendency of curiosity too severely.

It was the higher-strung, overprotective mothers and fathers who were slower to learn this little lesson of life, much to the cost of their own sanity, and to say nothing of their children they had sired. The young Princess, for instance, had been told several times by Ser Davos, and by Father, where she was and where she was not permitted to play while the camps rode further and further north, towards Winterfell.

She has been told a countless number of times, especially by Davos, that Onion Knight. Under _no_ circumstances was she to go anywhere near the medical tent.

The medical tent intended for healing the wounded and sick, when it had finally been erected, looked, in the young Princess's mind, somewhat disheveled. The ropes that should have been pulled tight had plenty of give in them and the bottom should have been more pulled out when Father's sellswords had hectically erected it and hammered the pegs. It invited pity, perhaps even scorn.

The young princess stood, grinding the wall of her teeth, her white-boned fists clenching and unclenching at her sides as she struggled to ignore the sheen of perspiration that had started to throng on her brow. The medical tent looked no more than a pile of fraying green linens made spiny by the jumble of sticks within it. With the grey clouds, dull and grievous that threatened another storm gathering overhead and the light fading, it inspired a sense of unease, and in the little princess's mind, the daunting silhouette of the black medical tent seemed imposing and threatening.

The tent was like some boney animal that had died in the forest long ago, leaving nothing but skin and bones behind in its wake after death.

But when you are only eleven years old, the pull of the macabre is very nearly irresistible. _You_ know, don't you? You were eleven _too_ , once.

Shireen shivered, grinding her teeth in nervous anticipation as she glanced down at the small wooden chipped bowl of hot soup in her hands.

To be fair, for the most part, the young Princess almost always does what she was told. Kept out of the way of the menfolk, played by herself. And she did it without complaining. Father was fond of telling her she was a little warrior and a dutiful one at that. But doing what you are told, however, was one thing, but refraining from doing what you are told not to do was quite another. Particularly when there was talk amongst Father's soldiers of a 'distinguished guest' the Red Witch had brought back with her.

The little Princess felt her fingernails dig into the wooden material of the chipped bowl of soup she was holding. She was not afraid of the Red Witch's tent, no matter what the crazy superstitious soldiers said about it.

The injustice of not being allowed into the medical tent to see what mysteries and exotic wonders lay behind the tent's fluttering flaps made her ears burn.

_Perhaps the Red Woman has a cure for my greyscale_ , she thought. _Stone girl_ , a few of Father's meanest soldiers called her behind her back. She suffered from Greyscale; half of her face disfigured as the result. To say Princess Shireen Baratheon was hideous and suffered a face that would cause even the most seasoned of warriors to retch whatever they had broken their fast with, and why no one would ever want to lay their eyes on her, would be a severely gross understatement. She was truly grotesque.

Under her limp mane of dirty blonde hair, the Greyscale had caused her face to become somewhat uneven and twisted, her skin cracked and scaly.

There was nothing that could quite be compared to Stannis Baratheon's daughter, for she was an owl among doves, but because she was King Stannis' daughter, those loyal to Baratheon dared not breathe a single word.

The young princess had never thought herself particularly attractive. She knew that though one day she would be of marrying age, no man would want her. It was not that Shireen thought herself even remotely attractive, she just…didn't think about it much. 'Prince Garin's Curse', as some called it, had touched her when she was but an infant, and as a result of this, Shireen Baratheon had grown accustomed to her looks as the child had grown up.

Her hideousness by this stage in her life was simply a part of who she was, and the only time Shireen was ever made aware of it was when an individual chose to comment on her condition, either directly to her face, a poor decision for those who valued keeping their tongue were her lord father to hear of such atrocities, or behind their back when they gossiped, these man-boys, worse than kitchen wenches, or if she accidentally passed by a reflective surface, however, if there was but one thing about the young girl of eleven that was not touched by the grotesquerie that was the princess's visage, it was her eyes.

While one eyelid was becoming dangerously close to becoming afflicted with the Greyscale, it did not take away from their distinctive blue-green hues. Princess Shireen's eyes were quite clever, with a thirst for knowledge, seeming to give off the impression she was constantly asking, "Why?" Her eyes were sincere and gentle, with a touch of naivety.

Certainly, not the eyes of a monster and the young princess tended to take on a certain expression at times that suggested she held the entire world in her eyes. A sense of endless patience was held within the young girl's eyes, and in those pale blue orbs was a rather dull acceptance that she knew she would never be reciprocated, and living in solitude with minimal exposure to children her own age throughout her life gave Shireen greater understanding than what most any other normal person could ever dream.

The little princess blinked as she _swore_ she heard something low and guttural coming from within the tent's flaps, that forbidden place of intrigue.

_Someone's in there_! Princess Shireen thought wildly. _A phantasm? Someone's injured? What if they need help and no one's tending to them_?

Where she knew she ought not to venture but resisting the pull of the macabre was growing increasingly difficult for little Shireen to try to resist. The girl froze, faltering in indecision as she looked down at the cup of soup in her hands. It was cold. Princess Shireen winced at the observation of a crow perched on top of a branch of a nearby tree, the branches of the trees twisting underneath the weight of all the ice from the storm.

It was a disquieting structure, this tent. As she took a cautious half-step forward towards the medical tent's entrance, a glint of light caught the princess's attention and what followed was a sickly-sounding caw that made the fine hairs on the back of her neck stand upright.

A bird with grievous eyes and ink-stained wings seemed to float over to her with the swift movement of a wing. It landed on the branch in front of Princess Shireen cawed once again. The young daughter of Stannis walked forward past the crow trying to ignore it and failing. She could feel it boring its eyes into her back as if it knew she wouldn't leave this dark place.

And even _more_ disconcerting was the crow eyeballing her on the branch, as if to say, " _I know your secret, Princess_." A certain uneasiness filled the girl's chest as she peeked to the left and to the right. No Onion Knight or sign of lord mother or father that the little princess could see for herself.

Her ears perked up as the noise came again, sounding muted, but it was just faint enough to carry on the wind, causing Shireen's blood to turn to ice in her veins that the little princess knew had nothing to do with the cold.

Just its bleak appearance alone was enough to give the medical tent a reputation for being haunted, considering this was the Red Witch's tent.

No one, save for the red sorceress herself, knew what went on here, and as a consequence, no one in their right mind would blame Princess Shireen for being hesitant about getting anywhere near this repulsive place, but the rumors swirling amongst Father's soldiers and sworn sellswords had been more than enough to pique the eleven-year-old girl's interest. Talk of a _girl_.

There was no telling how old this mysterious she-stranger was, though Shireen hoped she wasn't much older than her, if she was still alive, even.

_Maybe I can make friends if she's in there_! Shireen thought hopefully, though the hopeful thought quickly died in her mind the second her inquisitive gaze slid up and down the length of the black tent, fluttering haphazardly in the wind, looking as though one good gust of strong wind would blow it over.

To venture inside had now become a matter of personal pride. Shireen was not a _coward_ ; Father had always said she was a little warrior princess.

And she knew there was only one way to prove it, and that was to dare to cross the threshold and step foot inside the medical tent and see for herself what mysteries and intrigues lurked inside the red woman's space.

Princess Shireen Baratheon took a skittish half step forward. Looked to the left and right out of habit. No one noticing her that she could see, as all of the adults were too engrossed in their own conversation to pay the child with the half-stoned face any mind.

It was close. Dear Light of the Seven Above, it was bloody close now. She'd never been this close to the Red Woman's tent in her entire life. With a shaking breath, Princess Shireen reached out a trembling hand and opened up the flap and stepped inside it.

The little princess drew in a frigid breath of stale cold air that pained her lungs, taking in another deep breath to try to calm down her racing heart.

_It's not haunted_ , Shireen told herself firmly. _Any people that come into this tent are probably long dead. No matter what Father's soldiers say, or Ser Davos, there are no such things as ghosts and phantasms…. right? Right?! Father wouldn't be afraid of it._

It was thoughts of her father that propelled the princess to take another cautious step forward, feeling her pupils dilate to the darkness that engulfed.

Father was always telling her to be brave, to be his little warrior princess. _Warriors wouldn't fear the darkness_ , the child tried to tell herself. _And I shan't either_. Steeling herself, the little princess blew a puff of air that turned to vapor in front of her mouth the moment the precious oxygen left her lips.

The pitch blackness of the Red Woman's tent suffocated the little princess's body like a damp, musty, thick blanket, clinging to every inch of her pale skin, both the pristine as well as the scaled, ruined half of her face. Princess Shireen blinked once, twice, feeling her eyelids move and instinctively moisturizing her eyes that in this darkness, she had no use for. Her first thought of the inside of the witch's medical tent was that it felt as though the air in here simply did not move, and the princess could not seem to shake the feeling of dread from her spine that something felt wrong.

The kind of silence that lingered in this tent was the sort that fell right before someone knifed you in the back when you were caught off your guard. It sent a shiver down the eleven-year-old's spine and she felt her blood chill in her veins, and that was when the little princess heard the tiny moan.

Shireen's head whipped around to the left and the right inside the tent, searching wildly about for any indication of where the noise had come from.

The girl stood there for a moment, rooted to the dead grass beneath her boots, wondering if it was simply the result of her over-active imagination to combat her years of loneliness and isolation thanks to her Greyscale.

And then, Princess Shireen heard another guttural moan, low and eerie, coming from somewhere off to her immediate left and toward the back.

It was so strange, unfamiliar, and so sad that it froze her heart to ice. The sound was a low, heart-wrenching sob. Very calmly and deliberately, with the little princess feeling as though she were somehow able to watch herself from far away, she gingerly crept towards the back of the tent, the long-since now cold cup of hot soup that Ser Davos had prepared for her still clutched in her hand. It wasn't much. Some venison, some carrots, and the like, better than nothing.

_Maybe whoever it is might be hungry when they wake up_ , she thought nervously, biting down on her tongue in anticipation.

"H—hello?" Princess Shireen called out, her soft voice wavering and cracking slightly as she spoke. "Is there someone in here? I—if you're hurt, please say something," she pleaded, careful to try to keep her voice down.

It would not do to have lord Father or Ser Davos discover her here. The little princess was met with nothing but silence. No answer. Shireen, despite her constant mental reassurances that she was a little warrior, felt herself begin to tremble uncontrollably as she approached a cot.

_Oh, Light of the Seven Above, save me. This was a mistake. I—I shouldn't have come. What am I doing_? Shireen paused, giving herself a moment to regain her composure and calm down, to try to approach this precarious predicament she had landed herself in with some bit of dignity and a measure of grace.

After a few moments, the further back towards the rightmost corner of the Red Woman's tent that she went, Shireen's eyes adjusted to the darkness.

She approached the cot and as her eyes further became used to the pitch blackness of the tent, the little princess's first observation was that those soldiers, those sellswords that gathered at the campfires at night, were _right_.

Shireen gingerly approached the young woman lying lifeless on the cot.

"Oh, it must have been _you_ who had made that noise," she whispered hoarsely, a sheen of sweat starting to throng on her forehead and drip down the side of her temples. The princess allowed a nervous chuckle to escape her lips, thinking this was the first conversation she'd had with a corpse.

Though, then a thought occurred to her. _But how could she if she's already dead_? Shireen's conscience offered unhelpfully, and this puzzled the girl. Princess Shireen gave her head a curt little shake to clear it and continued staring as best as she could at the young woman on the mattress.

Red hair, a pretty rich auburn brownish-red color that gave Shireen just the slightest twinges of jealousy to look at. There were bruises on her cheeks. Dark, purple splotches underneath her right eye, and another on her left browbone that would most assuredly scar, though that was not at first what the little princess's sharp gaze was drawn to, no, but rather, a wound at her side.

It was originating from her right ribcage, a grueling injury seeping her red crimson life force all over the material of her dark azure blue velvet dress.

Shireen's first thought of this mysterious and very much _dead_ she-stranger was that she really _was_ quite pretty, that auburn red hair of hers, and a tiny smattering of freckles that dusted along the bridge of a cute nose.

This new she-stranger looked like Death. So pale and so lifeless. In death, the girl was ghostly pale, her lips already tinged bluish from the cold.

Though her eyes were closed, she didn't have the appearance of sleep, even in deep slumber, there were tiny movements and a strange glow to her skin. This corpse, so still on the mattress that the Red Witch had placed her on, is her flesh, and seeing it was how Shireen knew the girl had departed.

Princess Shireen was moved by a pity that began to spread as warmth throughout the confines of her chest.

"I hope comfort and peace have come to you, milady," the little princess whispered as she clasped her hands together. The woman had left Westeros behind for a new life, whatever awaited departed souls in the heavens or the seven hells below following this existence. She looked like a doll, like one of the dolls that lord father had given her a few years ago when she was younger, her right arm at an awkward angle that looked rather out of place, if Shireen was being honest with herself, and her head lolled back against the pillow in such a way that she couldn't be asleep.

Based on the velvet fabric of the woman's illustrious gown, the little princess was able to discern that this stranger, whoever she was, was someone of utmost importance, though _who_ she was, remained a mystery. Her wrist appeared to be broken in two places, heavily scarred, when Shireen dared to creep as close as possible and gingerly lifted one of the overly long sleeves of the woman's gown for a better inspection of the girl's injuries, wondering if there was anything lord Father or the Red Witch could have done for her to ease the girl's suffering as she passed into the next life.

She certainly _hoped_ so. Shireen furrowed her brows into a frown. Just as Princess Shireen crept forward for a closer look, she heard a light tap coming from just outside, a branch of the trees twisting under the weight of the ice the gnarled limbs of the oak tree struggled to support this evening.

The girl very nearly shrieked in alarm and fright, thinking herself to be otherwise alone in this tent, save for the corpse lying lifeless on the mattress. Turning around hastily towards the tent entrance, she was relieved to see that nobody had discovered her unauthorized little entrance to the tent.

Shireen hesitated for a fraction of a second before turning back around to face the young red-haired woman who looked a few years older than her.

The little princess paused, setting the cup of soup down on a small wooden table alongside a bowl of what looked like medical supplies. A basin of hot water, rags, wine for disinfectant, bandages, though whatever _for_?! Whoever this young woman was, you didn't need bandages to treat—

Princess Shireen really _did_ shriek this time as a low, guttural moan escaped the woman's cracked and barely parted lips.

Shireen allowed herself a moment to gape open-mouthed at the corpse in shock for a moment before forcing herself into action. She perched herself at the edge of the young woman's bedside and put a shaking hand overtop the woman's hands.

Much to the little princess's surprise, they were still quite warm indeed. Shireen hesitated, weighing her options before finally, she felt a shift within herself give way, and she reached out with unsteady fingers, she held her hands close to the woman's lips. _There_. A breath, faint, barely present.

_Not dead, not dead, this one isn't dead yet_! Shireen thought, panicked, and just as she was about to make up her mind whether she should call for help and reveal to her father and Ser Davos and even the red woman herself that she had disobeyed a direct order and entered into the forbidden medical tent and had stumbled across this young woman clinging to her last breath of life, or if she should search for a place to hide as she heard approaching footsteps.

Whoever it was certainly was not going to be happy to find Shireen in a place where she knew she ought not to be, though before the insatiably curious and now frightened eleven-year-old girl could hasten to find a place to hide, the front entrance of the tent flap opened to reveal only Ser Davos.

The aging old man's sharp eyes made a quick scan of the tent, his eyes burning brighter than midnight torches as his gaze settled upon Shireen.

"Princess!" he barked, admonishing the girl by a way of greeting, the fingers of his sword hand hovering over the hilt of his weapon in its sheath.

Princess Shireen tried her utmost hardest to suppress the tiny groan that threatened to escape past her chapped and cracked lips. She began to wish she had never decided to come here and let what happen with this girl may.

Father's trusted Hand of the King liked her well enough, though he obeyed her lord father's order, and she could tell by the way the whiskers of the man's greying beard twitched without any prompting, he was furious.

There was no telling what would happen. Or rather, what would happen to her. Shireen swallowed nervously past the lump in her throat as the Onion Knight closed off the gap of space between himself and the little princess in a mere three quick strides, moving so fast Shireen barely had time to blink.

"What are you doing here?" Ser Davos Seaworth challenged, the edges of his voice hardened, his tone curt and clipped as his eyes narrowed.

Princess Shireen noticed that his hand did not move from its place hovering over the hilt of his sword as his gaze nervously flitted from her and back to the pale-skinned auburn-haired lifeless corpse laying on the mattress.

A deadly silence fell over the tent as thick as any quality poison as Shireen nervously had to crane her neck upward to regard her father's friend.

The man's voice would not have suggested anger to most people in Father's camps, but Princess Shireen knew Ser Davos Seaworth better than most, as it was Shireen who had taught the reformed thief how to read well. His calm and soft timbre currently hid a deep-seated rage at how the girl had snuck off without telling a single soul of where she had gotten to, and that, if judged incorrectly, was apt to burst forth from him at any second.

It was at that point that Stannis Baratheon's daughter felt her heart sink to the pit of her churning stomach, knowing she might as well allow herself to become lost in the godswoods nearby and just let herself freeze to death.

Because she knew that she was about to be in for a spot of trouble. Very. Deep. Trouble. Of course, she did.

"Answer me, Your Highness! You _know_ better than to wander beyond my line of sight, princess. You must stay where I or your lord father and mother can see you, Highness. Now. Tell me. What business, pray to tell by the Light of the Seven, have you in this tent? Your father would have beaten your hide had you been a son, little princess," demanded the Onion Knight, his voice still ever-present as the aging man towered over the young eleven-year-old, though this time, his hoarse voice sounded further away for some strange reason, which Shireen thought odd.

Princess Shireen felt the gathering of glimmering, unshed moisture sting and blur the edges of her vision as hot tears pricked at her vision, though the child blinked them back, refusing to cry in front of Father's Hand, and before she could part her lips to speak and provide an adequate explanation she knew Ser Davos the Onion Knight would be even moderately satisfied with, he let out a sigh and his gaze flickered towards the lifeless girl's body.

The knight looked crestfallen at the woman's corpse for what felt like several long minutes in silence, and the little princess could practically see the anger drip off of the man's shoulders as the tension slowly left his body.

Which was a good thing, Shireen decided. It meant mayhap she would be spared getting in trouble. The girl bit the wall of her cheek and waited.

"Sh—she's _alive_ ," whispered Princess Shireen, her curiosity tugging at her heartstrings and getting the better of her, her trepidation and fear of Ser Davos telling Mother or Father slowly evaporating as she too swiveled her head back around to look at the young girl so still and motionless on the cot.

This seemed to startle Ser Davos, and as the man leaned over the edge of the bed and downward to get a better look at the girl's pale but blue-tinged face from the cold, he very nearly let out a yelp as the child's eyes fluttered wide open, swiveling around for a moment in a hazy confusion before coming to rest on Ser Davos and Princess Shireen's skittish figures.

Princess Shireen stifled the gasp of surprise that threatened to leave her throat, though a hand was clutching at her heart, her fingers clasping onto fistfuls of her tattered brown dress, her heart thrumming wildly in its cage.

As the auburn-haired girl stared silently up at Ser Davos, whose face remained steadfast and impassive, a mask of calm serenity and indifference, Princess Shireen, ever the observer the stricken and afflicted princess was, she could not help but to practically see the tightening in the knight's chest.

Shireen drew in a breath and held it as she craned her neck to get a better look, well aware that staring at their prisoner, even in a state hovering on the brink of death like this was beyond rude, but she couldn't help it.

Her eyes were a beautiful cobalt bluish-green color and filled with horrible pain and grief, the likes of which the princess could not comprehend. Moved with pity, Shireen reached out a shaking hand on the girl's broken wrist, gasping in surprise at the heat that emanated from the appendage in waves, so twisted to the right, the princess wondered if they cut it off if the girl would even feel anything at all in her half-cognizant state.

"Hold on," Shireen whispered into the darkness as the girl's eyelids fluttered closed. "You'll be all right. You'll see," she said quietly, hopefully.

The auburn-haired girl's breathing stilled, her chest barely rising and falling. Princess Shireen exchanged a nervous look of trepidation with Ser Davos, who held such a look of shock intermingled with that of pity, she could not quite tell what the Onion Knight's feelings were towards her father's prisoner, though Princess Shireen knew she felt sorry for this girl.

_You'll be all right_. The princess felt her brows furrowing into a frown as she momentarily tore her gaze away from the older woman and her gaze fell on something on the table. Something she had quite forgotten, and suddenly, the little princess felt foolish. She craned her neck and swiveled her head and tugged on Ser Davos Seaworth's tunic and jerk to get Davos' attention.

"Mmm?" The old knight blinked at her a couple of times as his vision slowly but surely came to focus and rest on Stannis's daughter instead of _her_.

Princess Shireen merely grunted in response and wordlessly pointed to the cup of now-stone-cold soup resting on the little wooden table by the mattress.

Ser Davos merely proceeded to stare at it and then back to the princess, his greying brows drawing together in quandary, seemingly not comprehending. The little princess let out an audible sigh of her frustration. The Onion Knight, seeing where the little princess was looking, strode towards the table and picked up the cup of soup that he himself had prepared for the daughter of the King and his frown deepened as he turned to Shireen.

"Princess," he admonished, and he sounded less angered with her than he had moments ago, and Shireen supposed she should consider herself lucky in that regard. "You did not _eat_." Here, he proceeded to scowl at her. "If you are hungry, then you should eat what's been given, as food is scarce. Your lord father will have my own head if he finds you are not eating, girl."

But Princess Shireen shook her head in response when Ser Davos the Onion Knight attempted to gently press the cup of soup back into her hand.

"Not for me. For _her_ ," she squeaked, pointing a hand towards the now-motionless girl's form on the bed. Her chest wasn't rising and falling anymore, and the little eleven-year-old princess took that as a very bad sign.

Ser Davos' brows came even closer together and then it was as if a fire kindled in his eyes and sparked to life as the knight began to understand. "Y—Your Highness," he stammered, suddenly sounding uncertain as he slowly set the cup back down on the table, looking all of a sudden uneasy.

Shireen's frown deepened as she sensed the Onion Knight's hesitations, wondering why the older knight was hesitating at the nature of such a simple request. Oooh, everything was _not_ going according to what she wanted! Could the Onion Knight not see she wanted to _help_ this girl?! She just _had_ to!

This was perhaps the first girl that showed an ounce of promise, someone with whom Shireen might be able to make a soul connection with. She did not like nor did she trust the Red Woman Father was allied with, and Mother did not seem to have as much time for her as the princess would have liked.

The woman on the bed was admittedly older than the little princess, yes, this much was true, she could not have been older than twenty and one, maybe, but Shireen could not just allow Father's prisoner to die like this…

Princess Shireen resisted the urge to let out a yelp of frustration and stomp her foot in a temper tantrum like she had used to when she was five. "She will be _hungry_ when she wakes up, Ser! A—a nice cup of hot soup of yours would surely do wonders, yes?" Princess Shireen challenged hotly.

Ser Davos Seaworth was regarding the little princess with a look that Shireen could only describe as a look of utmost sympathy mixed with incredulity and disbelief as he gaped, seeming to struggle to find his words. Though before Ser Davos could even begin to formulate a reply to the King's little daughter, he found that he had lost the ability to speak his mind, and it was at that exact precise moment that a new voice rent the tense air.

"Did you really think that I didn't know, Highness?" a woman's voice, sounding accusatory, wafted towards the back of the tent at the princess.

Princess Shireen felt her breaths stop and catch in her throat. She swore her heart stopped too as her head and Ser Davos' too, she noticed, swiveled in the direction of the medical tent's entrance, and what followed was the longest bloody pause in the little princess's life. She could hear her breathing. She felt the blood pumping furiously through her own veins, it was that silent. For a moment, the child wondered if she had imagined her speaking.

"Did you think that I did not _see_ you? That I did not _hear_ you?" murmured the Red Witch, her husky voice dangerously soft and rather quiet.

As the red woman's voice rose in anger, Princess Shireen felt herself being pulled by the sleeve of her dress and dragged towards the tent's front.

She felt the hot burn of a lit candle being thrust close to her face, leaving the little princess with little time to react to this unexpected development.

The child felt the ironclad grip of the Red Woman's hand on her shoulder, with Ser Davos barking orders at the priestess to let the girl go, though the witch paid the old Onion Knight no mind at all, having eyes only for Stannis Baratheon's daughter, Princess Shireen could hardly see what was going on around her as her view was completely obstructed by the torch.

Shireen slowly opened her eyes as she felt the red woman lower the candle in her hand, allowing the girl to be able to see in front of her better.

Piercing angry eyes invaded the child's view as she looked upwards, and Princess Shireen found herself staring straight on into the eyes of the Red Witch, a woman that she did not particularly like, and she went out of her way to avoid at all costs and was _not_ looking pleased to see her in the tent.

The little princess swallowed down hard past the lump in her throat as her nervous, skittish gaze darted from the Red Witch's and to Ser Davos. Thanks to her and her stupidity, she was about to be in a spot of trouble.

Very. _Big_. Trouble.


	48. Melisandre-Sansa

**I apologize for the delay in updating. I work for a university, and the time before the holidays is always a hectic one, but I wanted to leave you with at least a chapter to get you through Thanksgiving break if you celebrate it, and I will return next weekend hopefully with an update! If you celebrate the Thanksgiving holidays, stay safe everyone!**

* * *

** Melisandre-Sansa **

The Red Woman frowned as she looked at the almost lifeless form of the last surviving Stark She-Wolf resting peacefully on the makeshift straw mattress. Hardly suitable for a woman of her stature, though something told the high priestess when the young woman awoke, she would have greater concerns on her mind than the current condition of her living arrangements.

Upon following the removal of Ser Davos, the Onion Knight, and the little princess _out_ of her tent following a firm scolding on her part towards the poor, unfortunate child, the Red Woman had set to work doing what she could for King Stannis' latest prize: his stronghold to securing the North. She had thrashed and struggled initially upon her revival, though, thank the Gods and the Light of the Seven above, that had ceased after a few seconds as the young redhead's body was simply responding to the shock.

Sansa Stark, looked, for the most part, quite peaceful in her sleep.

Her lips were no longer tinged blue, so that was a minor improvement, at least. Her face was thinner, her cheekbones hollow and gaunt, emaciated. When the Red Woman had brought the Stark girl's lifeless body back to life, she had known it was going to be a difficult process, and the journey back to Winterfell would not be a pleasant one for this little She-Wolf, she knew.

Sansa Stark was simply not accustomed to the ways of a traveler, at least not without the luxuries their kind could afford. The girl had lived such a comfortable life (mostly) up until this point, and Melisandre was quite certain when she awoke, that Stark would have never envisioned herself sleeping in a cold, drafty tent in the middle of winter with little more than a woolen blanket and a pillow to fight against the bitter cold elements of winter's wind.

Sansa most certainly would not have expected to be treated with such discourtesy, by anyone, much less by those she considered her family allies. It was a real shame, the Red Woman thought, that Stannis was so far away from himself, and misaligning his ambitions and straying away from the Lord of Light's path. Seeing her king's descent was almost heartbreaking.

_Almost_. Stannis was treating his kin worse than most would treat an enemy, and unfortunately, when the Stark girl woke, he would more likely than naught takes his aggression and anger out on the key to the North.

Sighing, the Red Witch put a hand lightly on the Stark girl's shoulder, hoping in some small way, to offer their new stronghold, the key to Stannis' victory, some semblance of comfort in her seemingly tortured sleep, waiting for her to wake up.

She did not know what it was that Stannis wanted of the girl, though she supposed in time, she imagined King Baratheon would use it to usurp the current Warden of the North that lay securely nestled within Winterfell's walls, that viper, that snake, Bolton.

Sansa Stark gave a feeble twitch slightly and moved her hand weakly in front of herself, as though grasping for something. The Red Witch frowned as she watched the Stark girl, the Imp's wife.

Melisandre felt her shoulders slump when she noticed a bruise forming on Sansa Stark's jaw. That must have been traumatizing for her, feeling the fingers of Roose Bolton's bastard son around her neck and near her jaw before the vicious cunt had thrown her off the roof to her grisly death below. Against her better judgment, she put her fingers lightly on Sansa Stark's cheek. It was warm.

Sansa Stark whimpered as she flinched away, squeezing her already closed eyes shut even tighter and shrinking down further into her mattress, and it was not the frigid cold air nor the sound of the whistling wind that wafted its way through the flaps of her tent which roused the Stark girl from her uneasy slumber.

Her heartbeat revived thanks to the Red Witch's efforts, now a throbbing mass of corded muscle, thundered relentlessly against her cage of bone and cartilage, her body colder than the memory of stone, of steel, of ash, all things Sansa had become accustomed to.

A flickering of rapid color flitted its way across her too-pale features, and a wave of muted, water-filtered echoes reverberated through her as if one of Baratheon's own men had thrust the tip of their lance deep into her breast.

A half-formed, pitiful mewling sob found its way to her lips, and yet her tongue refused its release, sending it away with a rough, pained swallow. Sansa Stark crumpled in sleep, twisting, and curling herself further in her bed.

Another sob, this one set willfully free from its confines as the young woman buried her weeping eyes within the smothering fabric of her pillow, seeking a refuge which would not come until she woke, of which the Red Woman decided in a split second that that time was now. The girl had slept in deep slumber long enough.

Without so much as a second thought, the Red Witch placed a hand on the girl's shoulder and prevented her from thrashing about in her sleep or lashing out at Melisandre with wild eyes, and uttered a single command, her voice low and dangerously quiet.

_"_ _Come back…"_

* * *

She awoke to the sound of a voice, two voices, angered, clipped, and hardened. There was no mistaking the hint of steel laced throughout each of their voices, of a woman and a man's voice arguing. The sound of what sounded to her like a crackling fire and the comforting feeling of warmth greeted Sansa Stark as she slowly returned to consciousness and the world of the living.

The young redhead blinked, forcefully at first, attempting to rid her lashes from the 'sleep' that had crusted at the edges of her eyes during slumber. How long had she been asleep? She must have been asleep for quite a while, she surmised, for the crusted gunk did not want to be so easily removed and Sansa had to scrub away at the rest of it with the heel of her hand.

Sansa let out a pained hiss, gritting her teeth in agony upon discovering the hand in use was the very one that Ramsay Bolton had very nearly broken up on the roof. **RAMSAY**!

Sansa bolted upright at the mere mention of the bastard's name, her cobalt blue orbs wildly flinging open, and knew immediately that she had made a mistake as a wave of nausea hit.

Sansa swung her legs ungainly over the edge of the hard and unfamiliar mattress and almost instantly, the room started spinning, and she knew she'd made a very grave mistake indeed by trying to get up prematurely.

She swallowed down hard past the warm feeling rising in her chest, but the bitter acidic stomach bile from the layering in her gut had already begun its rapid descent up into her chest and throat. She tried to fight it down but to no avail.

She was hardly aware of someone shoving a washing basin underneath her chin, but she was grateful for it as she retched loud and hard into the bowl, her stomach bringing everything up and out, as she gripped onto the blankets tightly at her sides into fists.

Someone steadied her by the shoulders as best as she could, though the only thing Sansa could focus on was how her palms and the pads of her feet felt clammy with a forthcoming, feverish sick. Every single throw of her stomach let a burning, bruised feeling inside, and the hammering at the front of her temples only made it worse. Her whole body felt incredibly weak, not to mention sore.

Her muscles ached all over, her wrist and back stung, throbbing, and she could feel an independent pulse beat on its own.

There was nothing coming up though she continued to dry-heave and gag, and Sansa quickly realized it was because she hadn't eaten anything of substance in the gods only knew how bloody long.

Finally, her stomach had settled long enough for her savior to remove the bowl from underneath her, and her body, drained of strength, collapsed back against the pillows as Sansa released a low, mournful, and pitiful whimper, a truly less than dignified sound.

A horrible, constricting feeling clawed at her throat, intensifying as she shifted and draped the blanket further over her lap for more warmth. She tugged at the material of her thin shift before she reached down and fidgeted with the yellow gold ring on her left finger. Just touching it with the pads of her fingertips allowed Sansa to relax, the tension in her shoulders slowly leaving.

_Good_. Sansa emanated a shaking breath of relief. It was still there. Hopefully, Tyrion had sent Ser Bronn and a team of his men to find her, because as she glanced around the room at her unfamiliar surroundings as her vision slowly returned to her, Sansa quickly realized she did not know where she was, or whom she was with. The horrible swarm of memories as it all suddenly came back to her like a flurry of flies around her head that she could not swat passed within seconds, leaving Sansa feeling breathless and tired.

Although conscious, Sansa Stark was not fully present at the moment. She did not know how long she sat there, staring numbly into the depths of the fire as though nothing else existed. Long enough at least for the aching and pounding in her skull to reduce to a dull throb and become manageable, which was better than nothing, she guessed, though at some point, she'd have to move.

She needed to find out where she was. Though her mind sprung forward and the dark environment of the tent she was in came rushing up to meet her, whether she was ready for this or not.

The fire crackling in its way as the logs popped and settled. A familiar scent of old pinewood and what smelled like spiced wine wafted its way through her flaring nostrils, and she fought back the urge to gag, with Sansa hoping she wasn't about to be sick again.

Slowly, Sansa inhaled, wanting more of the scent. She held it for what felt like several moments, savoring it, allowing it to fill her lungs. As she released the breath, slowly, she felt an immense amount of the tension that had been welling up inside her, leave.

Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. And again. Repeat a few more times.

_Good_ , Sansa thought. _Focusing on breathing. Just breathe…_

"Lady Stark?" A woman's voice, quiet, though cautious, spoke up from her immediate left. Sansa's head jerked upwards, a startled cry upon her lips, having quite forgotten someone else was in the tent with her. There, standing somewhat awkwardly by her bedside, a medical basin of supplies and fresh bandages tucked underneath her arm, was that same goddess, the phantasm, this Red Woman, that Sansa had seen shortly before she'd lost consciousness.

She had fallen, yes. She could remember that much.

But after that, it all was a blur, and she knew nothing more. What of Ramsay Snow? Was the bastard son of Roose alive or dead? And Tyrion, oh, _Tyrion_! What was _he_ going to think? Had he thought she died? What was he going to say to all of this when he learned the truth? Too many questions and conflicting thoughts were swirling around in her fatigued mind and none of the answers.

Sansa blinked and forced her attention to return to the Red Woman, this rumored witch, and she wondered if this was the same strange creature that King Stannis was rumored to be in league with. The older woman had a habit of touching at the strange broach, an intriguing jewel about her neck that caught Sansa's eye. The Red Woman noticed her looking and shot Sansa what she surmised was meant to be an ambivalent smile, and yet the way her features twisted and contorted, it came across as more of a grimace.

"Nothing you need to worry about, milady," she said calmly. There was a hint of steel in the Red Woman's voice that told her not to ask after the strange broach again. Sansa felt her shoulders slump in defeat and instead offered a mute little nod.

Sansa, to that end, had no apt response prepared, and when her cracked lips parted open slightly to speak, her throat was on fire and parched, and she found that she could not, wanting water.

The woman's smile, though forced and strained, showed the tightness around her eyes. This woman, whoever she was, had brought Sansa back from that dark place, the confines of her own trapped conscience, and for that, she didn't know how to thank her.

For that matter, Sansa was not even sure if she should. She did not know this woman, this witch, or what her motives might be.

The Red Woman said nothing to Sansa in reply, at least not at first, merely proceeding to raise her furrowed brows in alarm as she set down the wooden basin on a small nearby table and set about pouring what Sansa hoped was water into a small chalice for her.

"Let me see," she murmured in a voice with a slight lilting accent. Without even waiting for permission, the older woman perched herself at the edge of the bed and gingerly took Sansa's much smaller hands in hers and examined the wrappings of her bandaged left hand, turning her hands over in the palms of her own. "Snow held a pretty hard hold over you, didn't he, girl?" she muttered in a hardened tone that sounded almost slightly angry.

Sansa swallowed nervously, finding it increasingly difficult as the lump in her throat seemed to be growing in size, and instead glanced down at her feet and did her best to wiggle her toes.

She could not remember the last time when she had felt so useless. Stupid. She really _was_ a stupid girl with _stupid_ dreams who _never_ learns! She should not have gone on that rooftop alone without Tyrion or Ser Brienne by her side and look at what had happened.

Sansa flinched and drew in a sharp breath that pained her lungs as this she-stranger, this Red Witch who had yet to reveal her name, again without asking, rolled up the sleeves of her shift as the young redhead remained silent and unresponsive as the witch continued her initial examination of her body, checking her hurts.

"It does not appear that anything is broken following my efforts to bring you back, so that is some good news, at the very least. You bled a little bit when you fell, but I was able to save your babe," she murmured, relinquishing her grip on Sansa's arms and allowing the young redhead to roll her sleeves back down and burrow underneath the thick, if not slightly scratchy, green woolen blanket.

Sansa felt the beginnings of hot tears pricking and stinging at the corners of her vision, though she forced herself to tamp it down.

"Th—thank you," she murmured in a weak and hoarse voice, still actively refusing to meet the Red Woman's piercing gaze. "Where…is…my husband?" It was becoming increasingly difficult for her to speak, and Sansa did not want to become even more emotionally vulnerable than she already was. Speaking too much about what Ramsay Bolton had done to her would only result in more tears, and she refused to allow herself to cry in front of her.

She wanted to steer the topic of conversation away from her. Sansa wasn't sure if she would ever be ready to discuss in detail what had happened, and yet, she felt confident that whoever had brought her here, be it this woman or King Stannis himself, if this Red Witch was at all who she had suspected her to be based on rumor, thanks to the gossiping tongues of all the kitchen wenches back at Winterfell, their tongues hung in the middle so they could wag at both ends, would want to know the truth from her, and soon.

Presently, her mind felt muddled, and she wasn't quite sure if she was safe right now, and as a consequence, did not know how much information was safe to relay if her captors knew her name.

She had to assume that, for the time being, that they did, and if they did, then surely, they would help her to return home. With a relieved little sigh, she looked around herself as Sansa slowly came back into reality, still awaiting the mysterious woman's answer.

Though she could sense this older woman meant her no harm, no ill intent in those piercing eyes that she could detect, even so, Sansa couldn't help but feel a dreadful feeling in her chest, knowing that she still did not fill at ease about the way this woman was cautiously eyeing her, with a look akin to disappointment.

But _why_? Why was that? Had she done something, said something wrong to cause this woman to despise her so much? She did not know this woman. What had she done to cause discourse among someone that Sansa knew for all of less than five minutes?

Sansa parted her lips to speak, though before she could provide a follow-up question to the one that she had just asked, and falling short of begging this woman, this goddess, for an answer as to her whereabouts and what had befallen her little lord husband, the sound of the tent's flaps caused her ears to perk up at the noise.

She did not know, growing up, how she had come to possess such a keen, almost wolfish sense of hearing, but she was grateful for the gift, and tension met her and Sansa Stark swore the temperature in the air dropped ten degrees as King Stannis himself entered the tent and his face met Sansa's with a critical interest.

Sansa Stark swallowed nervously as the king turned towards the Red Witch, who offered an awkward little bow and half-curtsy.

" _Leave_." His tone was clipped and hardened, and though the Red Woman looked as though she wanted to protest, she obliged, turning on the heels of her brown leather boots to go in silence.

Sansa's heart was pounding loudly in her chest as she sat up straighter, fluffing her pillows with her uninjured, non-dominant hand as best as she could, biting her bottom lip at how terribly, horribly awkward this all was. She wasn't sure why King Stannis wished to speak with her alone, assuming he would tell her at some point, and she could only hope the man wasn't too upset with her.

_Though why would the king be upset with me for dying_? She could not help but wonder, biting the wall of her cheek as a pit began to churn and form uncomfortably in her stomach as it churned.

As she waited for Stannis Baratheon to pull up a chair and situate himself next to her bedside at a safe and relative distance, she found she could barely contain her racing heart or frantic breaths. She had expected some form of anger or discontent from this king who worshipped the new Lord of Light, but surely, it was nothing that the two could not discuss in amicable terms, right?

All she wanted was to return home to Lord Tyrion and to do that, she would be willing to suffer through whatever harsh words the King wished for her to accept in order to ensure that happened.

Stannis Baratheon, for reasons that were unknown to Sansa Stark, was angry. Sansa could see that quite plainly for herself with her own two eyes. The King had yet to speak to the young redhead of his anger, but she liked to think she knew how men's minds worked well enough to tell when they were angry about something.

His eyes were filled with an immense betrayal and anger, and Sansa Stark knew that, like it or not, placating this false king, was perhaps the only way that she would return to Winterfell, to Tyrion, in one piece. She would have no choice but to exchange dialogue.

It was the only way. Sansa could only hope the man would understand and have faith in the old gods and the new, the Light of the Seven, that he would. But…that did not necessarily mean that this conversation the two of them were about to have was going to be an easy one to be had, but if it would get her home to him, then she would say whatever words would stroke his ego if need be.

The King let out a haggard sigh as he settled himself in his chair, folding one leg across the other and folding his arms across his burly chest. No doubt this little situation would take time to sort out.

"Please, Lady Stark. You may begin whenever you feel you are ready," he spoke in a rough, grating voice. "I am sure that you have questions as to how you ended up here in my encampments, and they will be answered in time, but right now, there are a few things about you and your… _relationship_ with the Imp that must be made clear to me," he explained, and it quickly became clear to Sansa by the hint of steel laced throughout his voice that this false king did not want any tricks or deceit as he stared at her somewhat angrily.

The young redhead slowly narrowed her eyes in suspicion, weighing her potential alternatives and deciding there were none.

"And what makes you believe that I will answer them?" she fired back, reaching with shaking, fumbling fingers for her chalice of ice water which rested on a small wooden night table beside her bed and lifting the goblet to her lips and taking a hearty swig, but gods, that felt so good as the cold beverage went down her throat.

All the while never once averting her gaze from this king, who merely proceeding to stare at Sansa as though she were some exotic creature that he had captured and did not know what to do with.

"How perceptive of you," he drolled in a smooth, languid tone. "I do believe that you _will_ answer them, my child, because like it or not, _I_ am currently your only means of ensuring you reach Winterfell's gates alive and unharmed and in one piece, my dear."

Sansa visibly cringed, hoping her disappointment and a slight twinge of fear were not evident in her brimming bright blue eyes.

He was right, damn him, may the Seven bless his soul not. She flinched as King Stannis peered at her over his nose, a rather intrigued expression on his reddened and weather-beaten features.

"I can see that _that_ statement has piqued your interest," he murmured, a dark little chuckle escaping his lips as he leaned all the way back in his chair, giving the young woman a long, contemplating look.

She kept her limbs huddled together and repeatedly glanced over him towards the tent flaps, as though looking for any way out of here and away from this conversation, though the Stark She-Wolf tried to attempt both without notice.

"Well, ah," Here, Sansa Stark glanced downward and picked at a loose thread that was coming loose on the blanket draped protectively over her. "If I answer your questions, will you escort me safely home, to Winterfell? I wish to see my husband, Your Grace."

It was apparent her skittishness and nervous demeanor stemmed from the Red Woman leaving her alone with him. Yet, despite her nervousness and somewhat questionable behavior in his mind, even Stannis was quick to recognize that unless the pair made significant progress diplomatically, he would not gain the North's support, no matter what Stark's physical condition was.

King Stannis almost snorted at the young woman's naiveness, at how gullible the girl was, though he allowed his face not to betray a single emotion as he looked upon the girl in amusement.

"I believe that is a fair enough suggestion, Lady Stark," he agreed, nodding his head in approval. "However, would you grant me the courtesy then, my dear, of being the one to ask first?"

"Yes," she answered in a small, meek voice with a slight dip of her head. "Where…" Sansa Stark hesitated, looking once more towards the tent entrance before looking back towards Stannis again. "Where would you like me to start?" she questioned him finally.

This time, he really _did_ chuckle. The Stark girl was almost endearing in a way and reminded him in many ways of his Shireen.

"I would say from the beginning is the best place to start, wouldn't you agree, Lady Stark?" he said, offering her a sly grin.

Sansa nodded her agreement reluctantly, lifting her chin and jutting it out slightly defiantly to meet his unabashed, unwavering gaze. If this was the only way to see Tyrion again, then so be it.

"What would you want of me in exchange for escorting me home, Your Grace?" she questioned, looking at Stannis with raised eyebrows, knowing that being reunited with her husband would come at a high cost, and the look he shot her confirmed her suspicion, and she felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

The moment the words left her mouth unchecked, Sansa almost instantly regretted asking the false king such a question, though she knew that this man was not about to escort her home with the favor left unreturned.

He would demand something in return, and she would have no choice but to grant it if it were within her power and her rights to do so. She winced as the king leaned forward in his chair and rested his right cheek in his fist, a glimmer of intrigue in his eyes as he stared at her in silence for a moment.

His lack of response irked Sansa, and she began to feel a little nervous. If there was something specific that he wanted of her, then why would he not just come outright and admit it? It was his, then!

If he could ensure her safe return to Tyrion, she would give—

But she did not get a chance to speak as Stannis Baratheon's baritone voice reached her eardrums, and his next words to her sent a chill of fear down her spine and set her blood to ice in her veins.

"Relinquish your rights to Winterfell, and I would see you returned home to the Imp on the morrow, Lady Stark. That is the condition of my arrangement if I am to escort you home, my dear."

Sansa blinked owlishly at the false king, feeling quite certain she must have misheard him. This—this was a _joke_ , was it not?

They were laughing at her, King Stannis and his men, the Red Woman, all of them, at the disgraced daughter of the traitor, Ned Stark. But no. Sansa realized with a heavy heart as their gazes met and locked with one another that the King was serious.

In order to get home, to Tyrion, she would have to give up their home, and judging by the murderous look of daggers in his eyes…

There was no other way.


	49. Tyrion

** Tyrion **

Lord Tyrion pensively watched as the raven disappeared, sealed scroll in hand, his lips pursed into a thin line, wine goblet halfway raised to his lips to take a hearty swig of red Dornish wine, though he made no move to drink.

For perhaps once in his lifetime, he doubted if he were to take a sip, he'd be able to taste anything. Everything, since Sansa was thrown from Winterfell's rooftop, was just…gone.

There was nothing left. The taste of wine and food. Smells. Everything. The grief came in waves and threatened to consume him entirely. It was his master, for now. He was at the mercy of its whims and at times it bit at him with such ferocity he feared it would leave him an empty shell.

He turned towards Lady Sansa's handmaiden, the petite little slip of a blonde, Phoebe Snow, who was already wincing and biting her bottom lip in a fit of nervous agitation at the shadow of anger and regret that darted across the dwarf's scarred face, which was halfway bathed in the dancing orange, yellow and red flames from the fireplace.

"Thank you, Phoebe. Please ensure another is sent out tomorrow." He turned away, surely sensing the hesitation that Lady Sansa's handmaiden nursed against him, and the slight revolt, surely able to smell the wine spirits on his breath.

"But milord," Phoebe murmured in a low voice as Lord Tyrion sanguinely lifted his head to regard her, and a light pink blush speckled along her cheeks as she curtsied and inclined her head as a show of respect. "The ravens Winterfell has left are few, you sent out several in the last six days. On the morrow, we'll have two. If those two do not return…"

But the young blonde's voice cracked and faltered as her resolve fled her as she fell silent and watched. Tyrion stilled in his movements as he turned his head slightly towards Phoebe Snow so the young blonde handmaiden and hearth keep could partially see the dwarf's profile. Due to the dimness of the only lighted source in the room emanating from the fireplace, it was hard for Phoebe to make out Sansa Stark's husband's expression, though she could tell by the way the man stiffened in his chair, he was displeased.

Phoebe bit down hard on her bottom lip and worked fervently to repress the squeak of fear that threatened to escape from her chest, throat, and lips at seeing Sansa's husband in such an agitated way. Lord Tyrion's skin was greyed in such a way that made it look thicker, leatherier as if all the blood had leached into his core or else drained. It hung on his skull as pastry draped over cut apple.

Every movement he made was crisper than fluid, almost as if he were simply going through the motions of life without really being present. He never got to tell her that he loved her one last time. Did not get to hold Sansa close, before that vicious bastard cunt Ramsay had deprived him of his wife. Tyrion never got to look into Sansa Stark's loving, beautiful face, which had, since their marriage, brought him so much joy and happiness, and he had never once told Sansa any of this. Not once.

Sansa Stark had always been there for him with a smile shining in her bright blue eyes; and now his wife was gone unless he could find her.

His anger slowly dissolved to sadness as tears embraced his eyes, making the surroundings of his private chambers twist and distort. Waves of pain washed over Tyrion, and his body convulsed to meet each one. She was gone, her light consumed by a strange material of darkness.

Though whether that be Death itself or Stannis, he did not know. All Tyrion had left of Sansa Stark was his wife's fading image in the forefront of his tormented mind. He could still see her, sitting in the chair, as always, her soft, loving hands working diligently on her needlepoint, her auburn tresses spilling down her back in luscious waves.

But no matter how hard Tyrion tried, he could not fully see Sansa Stark's face. Like a ship straining to see a fire, that beacon of light in a storm, Tyrion desperately searched for a picture of her face in his memories. None comes to him.

All he could focus on, remember of her, was the brightness of Sansa's pale blue orbs; the details of her face, however, were gone. Just like his wife. In despair, he rested his forehead against the palms of his hands as he felt a vein give a twitch in his brow.

"Then we'll send out the last two ravens until I find my wife, do you understand me?!" Tyrion snarled in a voice that did not quite sound like his, as all traces of warmth and kindness had fled.

Phoebe jumped as a bottle of ink rolled on the floor and spilling its contents on the stones beneath her boots the moment the dwarf's hand curled into a fist and he brought it down on the table that rested near his armchair, and she had to leap backward in order to keep the ink from staining the hem of her simple brown dress.

"Yes, milord," mumbled Phoebe, not knowing what else to say.

As little as possible seemed preferable then, the young blonde was quick to surmise, given the sour state of the man's truly deplorable mood, though she could not fault him for his reaction. It was not every day a corpse just up and vanished from the grounds of Winterfell with nary a trace, though rumors abounded from several Bolton soldiers who claimed to have seen a mystical cloaked red figure on the grounds, though no such trace of this mysterious woman seemed to exist, it was rumored Stannis Baratheon had fallen in league with a witch, a red woman, a sorceress to the Lord of Light. Phoebe swallowed down nervously past the lump in her throat.

"I am terribly sorry for inconveniencing you this evening, milord Tyrion. It shall not happen again. The last two ravens will be sent tomorrow, per your orders, milord. If you would please excuse me," she whispered. Sansa's handmaiden had little more to say on the matter as she mumbled a half-hearted excuse under her breath, though she paused, a hand on the doorway as she turned to look towards Lord Tyrion, whose back was facing her as the man stared into the depths of the roaring fire as though nothing else existed.

Every encounter Phoebe Snow had had thus far with the little dwarf lord following his wife's mysterious disappearance seemed to leave the young blonde lass close to having a panic attack, or something similar. But yet, this time, it was the man's stillness, the strange control of his quiet, reserved tones, which concerned Lady Sansa's handmaiden far more than any anger he had ever displayed towards her before, which was rare, save for this instance regarding the spilled ink bottles.

"Wait. Do not leave. Stay. Just for a moment. I wish to speak with you, Phoebe, if I might be granted the courtesy." His voice was rough and calloused, which strangely put Phoebe Snow at ease. It gave the Imp a tangible sense of vulnerability and made the man more relatable.

Phoebe stiffened her hand on the doorknob, poised to go, though she halted in her movements. "Yes, milord?" she asked.

Whatever it was that Sansa Stark's husband wanted of her, she dreaded to think about how their conversation was going to proceed.

Lord Tyrion slackened in his chair, his fingernails raking down the material of the armrests. "Sit." He commanded her, the edges of his voice hardened, clipped, and quite hard.

She did so, but sat at attention as Lord Tyrion continued, all the while biting her cheek and running her tongue along the top wall of her teeth, feeling a sheen of sweat start to throng on her brow and slide down her temples in cold fear.

"No doubt you are wondering why I sent for you, aside from inquiring after the matter of how many ravens we can spare," he answered, without giving a chance for her to speak, he added, glancing at Phoebe Snow sideways.

Phoebe smiled, a bit embarrassed, and albeit without showing her teeth, as if he had somehow sensed what was going through her mind.

"Yes, milord," she confirmed, inclining her head as a show of utmost respect, nervously fidgeting with her fingers before resting them awkwardly in her lap. "How might I be of service to you, Lord Tyrion?"

Tyrion heaved a haggard sigh, thoughtful and reflective before he spoke. "I would ask you for your unwavering loyalty to my wife and me, Snow. I take it I need not repeat myself that what is said between you and I does _not_ leave this room," he began slowly and cautiously, hesitant.

But by the Light of the Seven, he was starting to regret summoning her to his personal chambers very much. "I see now why Lord Bolton continues to batter on that the maids know everything," he said softly.

Phoebe flinched, visibly cringing, and shirking back, her back pressing into the backrest of her chair as far as she possibly could go. Sansa's handmaiden narrowed her eyes as she took in the Imp's appearance. Much changed he was, in the week and a half since his wife's 'death,' though not a soul knew not where Sansa Stark had gone off to.

Stubble sprinkled along his jawline, suggesting he had not shaved in at least a fortnight. Dark purple bags clung underneath both of his eyes, and it did not take a maester or scholar for Sansa's handmaiden to ascertain the Imp, this Demon Monkey, they called him, had not slept.

In response to the young blonde handmaiden and hearth keep's rather guarded expression, Lord Tyrion merely proceeded to raise his eyebrows and smirk, as if he found some hidden amusement in her presence, though the brief smile, however minuscule, quickly vanished.

This only made Phoebe crinkled her eyebrows that much harder. But of course, Sansa Stark's husband was no stranger to her by this point. She was also perfectly aware that, she had not really known the Imp, not known the first morning she had met the man and nor now did she know what the dwarf's true nature was, beyond the man's drinking habits, which he seemed hellbent on drinking himself into a pure stupor.

Adjusting her posture as she squirmed uncomfortably in her seat, waiting with bated breath, the handmaiden did her best to seem as nonchalant as possible, for Phoebe did not wish to be the butt of some perverse joke at her expense.

Noting her change in stature and her shift in countenance as she jutted out her chin and dared to meet her lord's gaze, unabashed and unwavering, Lord Tyrion mirrored Phoebe slightly by staring at her in a serene and thankfully, non-judgmental fashion.

She was just cautious, that was all. In this line of employment, she could not afford to be, given her station and her rank in this life.

Tyrion paused, considering his choice of words. Sansa was pregnant and missing. The thought alone plastered as a vibration underneath his skin and made it crawl, as a cold chill wafted down Tyrion's vertebrae that he knew had nothing to do with the frigid cold of his private room.

It should have been exciting news. A Lannister heir to be brought forth into the world bearing his surname. Most men, he knew, would have been surely in tears at the prospect of sons to carry on their house's legacy and stronghold, but he could not shake the vision of Sansa falling.

He grimaced, transfixing his gaze upon the fire, though he felt the young blonde woman's piercing stare burning a hole in the side of his skull while Snow waited ever so patiently for him to gather his thoughts.

Tyrion felt nothing but dread and terror. Sansa Stark was pregnant with his child and he was not even by her side to offer protection or aid.

But seven bloody hells, he did not even know if she was alive or dead, if Stannis' men had somehow managed to capture his wife, if the rumors of the Bolton men bearing witness to a cloaked red-figure bore any semblance, even the smallest inkling of any truth to them whatsoever.

With the third to last raven now sent out, tomorrow marked a week and a half since Ramsay Bolton threw her from the roof and Sansa's corpse had mysteriously vanished from Winterfell with but nary a trace.

"Milord," Phoebe murmured, her voice subdued, effectively succeeding in pulling the dwarf from his torpid whirling of dark thoughts.

He blinked and looked towards the young blonde, who'd taken a lock of her wavy chin-length blonde hair and twirled it nervously in between her thumb and forefinger, while she too, seemed to be searching for her words.

"I would like to assist you in whatever way that I can, though it may not be much. It is clear to me that something ails you. There is no shame in wanting help or assistance, milord. It is what we are here for." She smiled at him nervously then, her wry little smile that tugged the corners of her lips upward not sarcastic or pity, but rather, encouraging Sansa Stark's husband to open up and she seemed empathetic. "I would be glad to be of service. What is said here will not leave this room. I give you my word," Phoebe Snow whispered hoarsely.

He was _definitely_ starting to regret this. Lord Tyrion waited until Sansa's handmaiden situated herself into a more comfortable position in her chair, and he kept his hands folded together as he sat in his own chair, his gaze remaining pointedly fixed at the fire crackling away in the hearth, but he was all too painfully aware of the heavy silence that lingered in the air between them, Phoebe Snow's silhouettes casting a ghostly, timorous shadow on the cold stone floor beneath their feet.

She was patiently waiting for her lord to speak and address her.

"My wife, as I'm sure you know, is expecting a baby. She is pregnant," he muttered in a low voice, finally piercing the silence which threatened to strangulate and suffocate them both if he did not start speaking. He blushed, sure Sansa's handmaiden was looking at him in aghast, not even needing to look her in the eye to sense her thoughts.

It was evident by the revolt he could sense that Snow nursed against him, that she thought him to be a monster. The Demon Monkey, the Imp. "I—I didn't…it just… _happened_ ," he stammered, a muscle in his jaw twitching, feeling at a loss for words. "And I do not know what to feel."

"Did she like it?" came Phoebe's sly, soft voice, warmer than before with no hardened, guarded edges towards it, causing Tyrion to look up at Sansa's handmaiden in alarm, finally daring to meet the wench's gaze.

It was cautious, however, her voice, which immediately set Lord Tyrion on edge, and he recognized what Phoebe Snow was thinking.

"I do not know," he muttered, feeling his neck sting with the heat at the declaration of his words, feeling the constrain of his doublet as he thought of the last time he and Sansa had made love to one another, Stark's lips pushing against his in a passionate fervor, hungry for him, her fingers clawing at his linen undershirt as they pressed into his chest, reaching out for something indescribable that even he could not explain. "I mean," Lord Tyrion stammered as he turned away from Phoebe, having to shift in his chair to look into the fireplace, wishing to rid himself of the alarming image. "I don't…I believe she did, yes, I think…"

Ending his sentence by raising his voice at perhaps the one person in this entire fucking bloody castle who could help him the most out of all here regarding the nature of his problem was perhaps not the wisest of choices the dwarf knew he could have made, but he felt as if he were being interrogated and backed into a corner and there was no way out.

Desperate to make amends in an attempt to make things better for the both of them, he turned his head to the side once to cough to clear his throat of the lump that had formed before turning back to Phoebe.

She was looking at him expectantly, hands folded neatly in her lap.

"She _did_ like it, then, I take it," exclaimed Phoebe Snow, Sansa Stark's handmaiden's voice breathy as she smiled shyly at Lord Tyrion, much to the dwarf's alarm. "I fail then to see what the problem is, sire."

"What?" Tyrion replied, now feeling a little more than thoroughly confused as he swerved his head around to better look Phoebe in the eyes.

"Forgive me, milord," Phoebe murmured in a low voice as she ducked her head, her fingers finding purchase by picking at a loose thread that was coming undone on the sleeve of her brown dress. "But if I may speak freely for a moment?" When Tyrion nodded his agreement, she breathed out a slightly shaking breath and continued addressing him. "You _do_ realize that if you wish for me to help you, then you must indulge me, at least a little. Without details, I'm afraid I cannot be of much use."

A shadow of guilt and regret crossed Lord Tyrion's angular features as the dwarf shot the young blonde handmaiden of his wife's an apologetic, furtive guilty look and tried to apologize with just his eyes.

He felt his stomach drop to the pit of his churning stomach as he thought of the likelihood of their baby being born with Tyrion's pain-inducing features, inflicting an innocent child with his dwarfism, perhaps.

Tyrion finally lost his composure, what little shreds of dignity he had left to begin with, and allowed himself to collapse back into his chair and buried his head in his hands. Tyrion no longer cared how the servants of Winterfell viewed him. Let them think about him what they wished.

Lord Tyrion sanguinely lifted his head and gazed at Phoebe Snow, knowing the girl would not refuse his plea to aid in finding his wife.

"You have served the Stark family with the utmost sense of loyalty I have ever seen in a handmaiden. You've demonstrated your skill and your, ah, shall we say, ability to keep applicable conversations _private_."

Phoebe inclined her head. "It has been my privilege, Lord Tyrion. You and Lady Sansa are too kind to me," she responded in kind by accepting the dwarf's compliment with as much grace and tact as able.

Tyrion nodded, though it was not enough to stop the shadow of remorse from flitting across his features, alighting his pale green orbs with an intensity that his wife's handmaiden couldn't tear her gaze from.

"I could not have asked for a better handmaiden to attend to my wife and me, but it is with a heavy heart that I must ask you now to leave us."

_Leave_?! Phoebe's jaw dropped open in shock, feeling her stomach churn horribly, her face paling and turning an interesting shade of green. All throughout her life, she had taken what life had given her, which was admittedly not much, though, in terms of noblemen and women, she could not have asked for a better man to serve under than Lord Tyrion.

She was quite good at it, she might even go as far as to say that she enjoyed it, considering the man paid her a modest sum for her service to Lady Stark, and after all she had been through in her life, she needed it.

Phoebe could not stop the fear from rising within her. Without her duties to consume her, she would surely be sent back over the Wall.

But the worst thought of all was fearing she had somehow disappointed the little lord and his wife, and she needed to know the truth. "Have I done something to displease you, milord?" Phoebe asked quietly, feeling utterly gobsmacked, not sure if she wanted the answer. "I can assure you, any oversight on my part was completely unintentional."

Lord Tyrion shook his head as he looked towards Sansa's handmaiden compassionately, feeling a twinge of sympathy for the young woman seated before him, looking, and feeling much out of place.

He had been afraid that the girl would misunderstand his meaning.

"No. Listen to me, milady. My request has naught to do with any failure on your part. Quite the opposite, in fact. Please believe that you have more than lived up to the expectations that were placed upon you, considering the…how my wife's previous handmaiden did not work out."

Tyrion felt his blush intensify, squeezing his eyes tightly shut as he did not want to think of Shae the 'Funny Whore' right now, at all. He watched, feeling minorly amused as the furrow between Phoebe Snow's brows only deepened, and her bewilderment grew even more. Tyrion knew he could not allow the girl to believe her performance and sworn allegiance to the Starks and now Lannisters had been anything but exemplary. Sansa had nothing but praise for Phoebe Snow.

He attempted to diffuse the sense of defeat he sensed in the beautiful little blonde, sensing the girl was in dire need of some encouragement.

"The truth is, there is but little for you to do within these walls while we wait for Sansa's return, and I am in desperate need of your eyes and ears elsewhere. I'd like for you to take an escort and search the godswoods, head towards Stannis's encampments, learn what you can."

Phoebe blinked owlishly at Lord Tyrion, feeling quite certain she had misheard. "M—milord?" she squeaked in a breathy sounding voice. "Is there really no other way? What would you have me do, sir? Why are you suggesting this to me specifically, and not one of the other girls?"

Tyrion paused, his hand on the rim of his golden chalice. There was something about Sansa's handmaiden, the girl's voice that made him listen. There was something strong, determined, and unfazed about it, yet quiet, polite, shy, and if he was being honest with himself, a true delight to listen to.

The dwarf closed his eyes before looking up at the girl. The young woman really was a pretty little slip of a thing, yes. He could see why Theon Greyjoy's eyes (not to mention countless other Bolton soldiers) followed her backside when she thought him not looking. She really was quite beautiful, not much older than his Sansa.

Golden blonde hair, warm tones, her hair shorter than most women he had ever seen, cut short, her thick, wavy strands falling to her chin, but it highlighted an oval face and high cheekbones and good jawline.

Blue-gray eyes, brown hair, perhaps, would have been better, but… Lord Tyrion studied his wife's handmaiden over the rim of his wine goblet as he lifted his glass to his lips and drank heavily, never once averting his gaze from his servant's terrified, skittish, pale blue eyes.

He paused in his movements, slowly lowering his wine glass to the small side table beside his chair, almost methodically, as he looked towards the spirited young woman. No, there was more than that, yes.

Phoebe Snow was beautiful, in a subtle sort of way, Tyrion knew. In the sort of way where if you were to look twice if one was observant, as he was, then you would see within the young blonde girl a strong spirit.

This was a good thing. It meant she could survive Stannis' camps. But it also meant that it would make it that much more dangerous for her. But it also made it a possibility, perhaps his best chance at finding out if the false King in league with the Red Woman held his wife captive.

Phoebe narrowed her eyes in suspicion as she noticed Lord Tyrion staring at her in a melancholic way.

"Why did you suggest this to me?" asked Phoebe in a guarded manner, thinking something of Lord Tyrion's tone felt off, and she wanted to know the truth behind the man's reasons.

Lord Tyrion drew in a deep breath before beginning to explain. He wore a pensive look as he began, carefully formulating his thoughts, needing to ensure that Lady Sansa's handmaiden was well informed of the truth, of why he could think of no one better suited to this task.

"The North is not as unified as my wife's presence back in Winterfell would have those of us loyal to Stark rule would believe. The matter of the fact that Lord Roose Bolton still is a _plague_ within these walls and draws breath is a bit of a complication, and there are still those that do not support Stark rule, though they would support even less if Stannis Baratheon were to attempt to gain control and take Winterfell for himself, though rest assured, he would have me rule it in his stead whenever he is absent," he grumbled bitterly, taking another sip of wine.

"But I do not understand. The people of the North _love_ Lady Sansa, they would crown her Queen of the North were it not for those _snakes_ ," Phoebe whispered through gritted teeth, leaning forward slightly in her seat, and it did not escape Tyrion's attention how her gaze darted nervously towards the closed door behind where Tyrion sat, as though half expecting Lord Roose himself to burst through the door from the shadows and announce his presence and hang her for conspiring treason.

The dwarf shook his head. "Not all, milady. Now that Sansa and I have wed, and she shall soon bring forth an heir into this world who will wear her husband's name, I fear this will only create further discourse."

A pause in Phoebe Snow's response was nothing Tyrion could have hoped for, though she finally relented and spoke up. "But why me, sire?"

Lord Tyrion shot her a pointed look before continuing. "Because, like it or not, my dear, you are the one whom my wife trusts the most. If you are agreeable to it, I would like your help in searching for Sansa."

Phoebe stared at Lord Tyrion in disbelief, hardly daring to believe her ears. She knew, of course, of young women throughout her life who had gone to serve under Stannis Baratheon's House. She let out a sigh.

"Usually, you would need a reference. But, considering how pretty you are, you could probably get away with it. I overheard a Bolton scout conversing with Lord Roose the other day saying one of Baratheon's cupbearers had been dismissed during their last reconnaissance into the man's camps, or rather, at the edges of, and should you become fortunate enough to gain entrance into his camps, I would have you become his next, milady. I want to find my wife, and it will only raise suspicion in Sansa's mind if I send someone else, one she is not as familiar with, dear."

"What would you have me do, milord?" Phoebe questioned quietly.

Tyrion nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in a satisfied smile, content at a minimum, that she was willing to hear him out. It was a risky endeavor, what he was proposing, but there were no other alternatives, as none of the ravens he'd sent had yet returned.

"The false king is reportedly quite fond of pretty faces. Whereas other women would never manage to get within a foot of his camps, I think you might be able to do so, and once Sansa recognizes your face, she would know, at a minimum, that I am actively searching for her and trying to find a way to ensure her safe return home by my side," he said.

"I will do as you ask, milord Tyrion," Phoebe mumbled, lowering her head reverently at the unspoken praise the dwarf was giving her. He did not need to say a word, for the silent gratitude was in his green eyes.

Bringing her eyes up once again to meet Lord Tyrion's, she recollected a little of what had previously been saying about an escort.

"And who would be accompanying me, milord, to his camps, sir?"

"Well," Tyrion began, straightening up in his chair and once more reaching for the tin decanter of wine to refill his goblet. Phoebe moved to rise from her chair to do that for him, though he waved away her offer with a curt brush of his hand and proceeded to fill his cup himself.

Begrudgingly and with great reluctance, she lowered herself back down into her chair, though unable to quell the sense of unease rising within her chest and spreading as a horrible warmth to her stomach.

"Who I aim to send with you would solve your little 'love' problem, for one," he snorted, a dry, sardonic chuckle escaping his lips as he drank.

"My… _what_? You speak of what you do not know," Phoebe protested, a blush speckling its away along her face, instantly warming it. She raised an eyebrow at Sansa Stark's husband incredulously but still remained silent and composed enough for the dwarf to continue talking.

"Yes," Lord Tyrion answered in a pensive manner, shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly as he took a sip of wine. "The maids are not the _only_ ones who listen into private conversations that they ought not, my dear," he chuckled. "I know the reason you've not accepted a suitor. You hold out for someone. Someone above you in stature and rank, someone who, if the word were to get out, your family would surely not approve of."

Phoebe blinked as she felt her face promptly drain of all colors. How in the seven bloody fucking hells did the man find out her secret?!

Somehow, someway he knew, that ever since that night in Lord Bolton's study, that things were much changed between herself and him.

What methods Lord Tyrion had used at his disposal to learn the truth, she did not know, but it mattered not. What did was that he knew!

He knew she was slowly but surely falling for Theon Greyjoy, and this fact alone sent a vent of adrenaline coursing through her bloodstream before it turned to ice in her veins. Beads of sweat broke out along her brow and her hands went clammy as her nails dug into the skin of her palm as the young blonde fidgeted with the skirts of her dress.

There just had to be a way out of this, though before Phoebe could part her lips open to speak, Lord Tyrion interjected and did not give her a chance to explain. Phoebe promptly clamped her mouth tightly shut.

"You are in love with Theon, aren't you?" Tyrion pressed, leaning forward in his chair, and pinning her with his deep gaze of piercing green that felt as though the dwarf's eyes burned brighter than midnight torches in their sconces, and bore a hole straight through to her heart.

"I…" Phoebe stammered, weaving her fingers in and out of her knuckles, seemingly, perhaps for the first time in her life, at a loss of words.

Tyrion smiled and shot her a knowing little smile, sympathetic to her plight, but he did not stop there as he leaned forward even further.

"You're in love with Theon Greyjoy."


	50. Sansa-Tyrion

**Sansa-Tyrion**

Gods be damned, but she was _not_ doing this. Oh, but surprise, she _was_! The path at her feet as it led into the darkness of the godswoods the closer Stannis and his men approached Winterfell, seemed to fade, yet Stark knew she held no other choice but to follow it.

She was going _home_ , without the Red Woman's assistance, or anyone else's for that matter. She did not quite know how she had managed to accomplish this little feat of victory at slipping away under the cover of darkness when the moon hid behind the clouds, but nevertheless, here Sansa was.

She supposed she would consider herself lucky if Stannis didn't send a team of his best soldiers and hounds to find her.

Wherever 'here' happened to be for her, she thought begrudgingly. Somewhere in there was the path that would lead her home, and so, her feet followed the naked earth among the giants of root and leaf. Sansa allowed the pads of her fingertips to touch their skin as she passed, feeling their gentle spirits soothe her own. For this was their world she was trespassing amongst as the trees stretched towards the light they never saw yet sense, and Sansa Stark knew that she was going to have to do the same thing.

The bare branches of the trees in front of her spiked into the sky—no sign of life to be found anywhere that she could see.

It was so dark, Sansa was barely able to see where she was going. There were only small sounds of rustling bushes and the howl of the occasional wind gust that tousled the skirts of her traveling gown and blew her hair off her shoulders, pinking her cheeks and flushing them high with color from the frigid cold.

Sansa didn't know what laid ahead in this dark forest, only that it was not going to be a particularly pleasant walk home, yes.

But she needed to do it, gods be damned to the seven hells.

_To see Tyrion_ , she thought, feeling her hand instinctively drift to the flat of her stomach, and her hardened expression softened. She still felt as though she needed time to ingest this further. She was going to be a mother in another seven months.

Though before Sansa could ponder this further, a startled yelp, a squeak of surprise nearby, caused her hearing to perk up.

She froze, trying to ascertain where the strange sound had come from, and then—there it was again, just to Sansa's right side.

Without even thinking whether it be friend or foe, Sansa moved deliberately and cautiously towards the noise's source.

Her hearts pounded against its cage of bone and cartilage, and she licked her lips to moisten them, but no moisture came, though upon moving aside one particularly stubborn groping tree branch, Sansa emanated a deep, shaking sigh of relief and felt her shoulders start to heave when she saw who it was that had fallen.

"Theon!" she breathed, not even caring if her handmaiden, who was just behind the Iron Island borne and starting to help him up, saw, and Sansa tried her hardest to stifle the giggle that threatened to escape her lips as Theon righted himself in a flustered manner, only to fall back over the ground as he stumbled over what was either a twisted tree root or more likely, his own foot. Sansa supposed it was quite difficult to walk with missing digits, wondering just how much of Theon Ramsay had removed.

"Thank the gods, you're safe!" her blonde-haired handmaiden exclaimed, rushing from behind Greyjoy to give Sansa a hug, momentarily forgetting the proper edict, to curtsy before the highborn, though Sansa could forgive Phoebe for that. "M—milord Tyrion is worried sick about you, milady! Come!"

Sansa nodded, glancing to the left and right as she stepped over a particularly giant root. The roots in these woods seemed to have a mind of their own, but Sansa Stark's feet, after what felt to the young She-Wolf of Winterfell like hours of endless walking, felt like stone, and if she had been the next one to trip over herself, it certainly wouldn't have been the first time it happened.

Grumbling darkly to herself under her breath, Sansa had to grab onto fistfuls of the skirts of her dress and left the hem to avoid tripping, staggering alongside Theon and Phoebe through the woods, following Theon's lead as he quietly launched into an explanation of how Tyrion had sent them out to look for Sansa.

She nodded quietly in understanding, only half-listening. She was just so damned tired of this place and ready to go home.

"Is milord husband out searching as well?" she questioned, unable to disguise the note of hope lingering in her voice as she bit down on her cracked lip and looked to Theon for confirmation.

"Yes, milady," he murmured, inclining his head by show of respect, though he was having trouble meeting Sansa's gaze.

"Where?" Sansa whispered hoarsely, glancing around to her left and seeing Phoebe run off in the direction of the northeast. She decided the best and quickest course of action would be to follow her handmaiden, and without second thoughts, broke into a run.

* * *

_She's alive. She's safe. You're going to see her soon. Your baby is safe_.

Tyrion kept repeating this mantra to himself in order to propel himself forward, not even minding that Sansa's handmaiden, Phoebe, kept lagging and falling behind, though if he had to hazard a guess, the girl was somewhat afraid of his rather short stature and was far too kind and polite a soul to say as much. Not that he cared either way.

The Wolves' Woods, as the smallfolk called it, this dark place that was once so alive now chilled Tyrion's bones. In the fading light of the day and heat of the late afternoon sun high in the sky, Tyrion was actually shaking. Badly.

Though he supposed it could have come from the copious amounts of adrenaline and excitement coursing through his veins at being reunited with his Sansa soon. These woods were ancient. The trees thick and old, roots that were gnarled, twisted. It might have once been filled with birdsong and other creatures that roamed, but now the place was overrun with…

_Nothing_. The sensation was eerie, and it chilled his bones. Its canopy was so dense and thick that Tyrion could only occasionally see the occasional streak of fading sunlight that very rarely touched the forest floor beneath his and the blonde girl's boots. Even its thick vines were slowly taking away the last remnants of the dwarf's sanity. If he had any left, to begin with.

He just wanted to find Sansa, and take her back to the castle, where he knew she'd be safe. Tyrion could feel the darkness drawing closer to him and pressing down, suffocating him slowly as he carefully stepped through the thick maze of woodland, stifling a tiny smile as he heard the girl, Phoebe, grumble under her breath about so many goddamned bloody tree roots.

The densely packed trees of the Wolves' Woods that lined the borders of the edge of Winterfell's estate loomed high above his head but remained eerily still despite the cold winter breeze that continued to float around the duo as they slowly but surely made their way towards Stannis' camps, and hopefully, to her.

The man squinted his eyes, only to see a path of gloom and uncertainty ahead, resisting the urge to roar like an enraged dragon as he carded back that one stubborn coarse lock of his bangs. He growled, yes, _growled_ , in frustration.

There was not an ounce of pride that swelled within him, only the desire to keep pushing forward until the two of them reached the castle, and he would scale the walls of the whole bloody gate and the building itself if that's what took to find her.

What would he say to her? It had crossed his mind to write Sansa a letter and yet…whatever bloody hell for? Without her here by his side, he'd feel empty and hollow. Cold and lifeless. But if only Sansa knew just how much he truly loved her, deep in his mind.

He dreamt of her every night, and he occasionally found his gaze drifting to the yellow gold wedding ring he wore proudly on his left ring finger, still thinking all of this to be a surreal dream, that the two of them were becoming parents.

Even if the baby were not born…well, _normal_ , he'd love it, just the same. He wanted nothing more than to feel his wife's lips pressed against his when he saw her again, overflowing her and saturating her with so much love and affection until Sansa thought she would surely burst from all of the attention once the two were reunited.

Tyrion had never really once said that he loved her, at least, not enough, he thought, though he felt it. He loved Sansa more than he could ever love himself, more than anything else in this wretched life. Tyrion blinked owlishly, pulled a moment too soon from thoughts of his wife as he heard Phoebe's voice cut through the otherwise silent forest air, sounding timid and uncertain.

"Um, just how exactly deep into these woods are we going? Theon found her, just back over that way, but I…I think we're lost," she murmured, trying to sound brave, and utterly failing as a consequence. He heard the warbling note of fear in her tone.

"As long as it takes to find my wife," Tyrion retorted back immediately, not giving the blonde the chance to answer, who had, for the entire duration of their walk into the woods thus far, said very little, though occasionally, she would comment on a tidbit about her sister, and ask after Sansa. "I'd travel into the seven layers of hell and back if that's what it took to get my wife back, girl, and if you don't like it," he barked, fed up and beyond annoyed with this woman's reluctance and hesitation to do whatever it took to get Sansa back. "Then you can turn around and go back to Theon. I won't hold it against you."

Phoebe ground her teeth and silently bristled at the dwarf's comment, though the petite blonde offered no comment.

After a moment, however, of awkward silence, she spoke.

"You care for her. Sansa. Your wife. Tyrion, if I can call you that?" Phoebe asked, biting the inside wall of her cheek, and reaching up a hand to scratch at an itch behind her left ear and tuck a wisp of her short blonde hair back where it belonged, watching with furrowed brows as Tyrion quickly nodded his agreement. "What will you do to her when you find her? _If_ we find her," she added darkly, almost begrudgingly. "These woods are so damned confusing, milord. It's a wonder if we make it out alive."

Tyrion did not know why the girl who he barely knew was asking such persistent and personal questions, though he suspected it was an attempt to make conversation and get to know the man better, or perhaps it was to steel her nerves at being in these accursed dark woods that she didn't particularly enjoy traipsing through, and he supposed he didn't fault her.

Truth be told, if he were being honest with himself, the dwarf was not exactly sure what he would do to Sansa. Hug her. Kiss her. Touch Sansa and make sure she was really real, that this was not about to be another figment of his imagination, not another phantasm, for he thought he would surely die if it were.

He'd had enough of his bloody imagination for a change. Tyrion paused, pondering what answer to give. At last, when he did manage to come up with a sufficient enough answer to give to the blonde who had just posed her query to him, he was surprised at how soft his tenor-like voice was, quiet. Reserved.

"Tell her…tell her how much she means to me. But I cannot help but feel worried," he confessed, his nails digging into the palms of his gloved hands, his nervous green eyes skittishly glancing to the left and right, hoping to spot any sign of Sansa, as if he expected her to materialize of thin air. "What if something happened to her? Or our baby and I'm…"

_Not there_ , is what he wanted to say, though when his cracked and chapped lips parted open to try to speak further, Tyrion found that he couldn't.

He sighed and clamped his mouth shut and pointedly looked away from Phoebe, though the man felt her piercing gaze practically burn a hole in his skull. Though, when the girl offered no immediate response, curiosity took hold of him and the man sanguinely lifted his head to regard the young girl out of the corner of his eye.

"Tyrion, then." Phoebe nodded, coming to stand beside him, and clapping his misshapen shoulder on the back. "Trust me then when I tell you that we will find her," she said soothingly, her quiet, sweet tones soothing to his broken heart.

Tyrion scowled, biting down on his tongue hard enough to bleed, wishing fully he could believe the blonde's words, and yet, it was increasingly difficult for him to do so when he barely knew this woman. "Tell me then, Phoebe. Has anyone ever believed you when you tell them not to worry? Do they trust you?"

He watched as the girl cringed at the mention of her unofficial title, though there was no denying it was what she was.

Tyrion flinched at how hostile his words sounded, his cold tone, but his worry manifested itself as anger even in the best of times, and as he shot the blonde an apologetic look, he could only pray that she would forgive him. The dwarf immediately felt guilty for his jab at her and wished he could take back his words, and he watched as if by witch's curse, the blonde's shoulders slumped.

Luckily for him, she did not seem to take offense to his statement, seeming to recognize his anger was not directed at her and was instead coming from a place of fear, the ambiguity of not knowing whether or not his wife and unborn babe were still alive. Tyrion watched as Phoebe Snow offered him a light shrug of her shoulders and pointedly looked away for a second.

"Worrying means you suffer twice. We will find her, milord," she reiterated with emphasis, not noticing how badly Tyrion startled at being addressed with a form of respect.

The dwarf opened his mouth to ask her how she could be so bloody certain, though before he had a chance to, the girl interrupted and lifted a hand and pointed to the northeast.

"That way," was all she said. "Hopefully, we'll find her," she murmured lowly, her breath forming puffs of cold vapor in front of her as she shrugged into her thick green cape for warmth.

The edges of her voice were clipped and hardened, which caused Tyrion to quirk his uneven brow at the blonde as the girl straightened her posture and stomped her way through the snow, determination and resolve etched upon her features.

He was not prepared for the blonde's next comment. "Hopefully, King Stannis won't be with her. That bastard…" Phoebe's voice trailed off and she did not finish her thought.

Damn. He'd almost forgotten. He'd been so focused and hellbent on locating Sansa and escorting her back to Winterfell in her physically vulnerable state, given she was pregnant, that he'd bloody well forgotten about that stupid false-king. He ground his teeth in annoyance, hoping he didn't run into the man himself.

Because the next time, he would kill him, especially if this false king who worshipped this so-called Lord of Light, as much as laid a finger on his wife, gods be damned, his own soul forsake him, there would be bloodshed.

Tyrion winced and visibly shirked away, recoiling in disgust as he hoped Phoebe did not see his rapidly growing anger, as he felt the familiar stab of jealousy prick at his heart any time he allowed his mind to wander down that dark path.

There was no quelling the hot fire-seed of anger in his chest, at the simple fact that this false king of their land, was everything that Tyrion was not. Handsome, around the same age, no physical deformities that the dwarf knew of. He was a King, for God's sake. _He_ certainly was much more of an appropriate choice of a husband for Sansa.

Tyrion let out a startled yelp of surprise as he accidentally almost barreled over the young blonde in his haste to catch up to her, for the little slip of a thing had quickened her pace.

He furrowed his brows in a frown as he stumbled backward and would have fallen had Phoebe not shot out an arm at the last possible second and caught his forearm, grunting through gritted teeth with the effort to help him stand upright.

It did not escape his attention that the girl was eying him rather cautiously, as though he were nothing but an interesting specimen that she had managed to capture from an exotic zoo.

Tyrion opened his mouth, his face draining of all colors as his lips parted open indignantly to speak, to demand of her what the bloody hell she thought she was doing when the girl raised her finger to her lips and effectively shushed him and pointed.

"There." It was all she said, and as she pointed towards a clearing in the particularly thick brush, Tyrion's gaze out of his one good eye that wasn't mostly blind, at least not yet followed her finger until the dwarf saw where the thief was pointing.

His temper was mounting to dangerous levels, and he was not in a patient mood and was fully about to give this blonde lass a piece of his mind if she was wasting their valuable time.

He wanted Sansa, and gods help this girl, she was going to help him find her, and if she wanted to prove to him that she wasn't _stupid_ , then she had better follow up her end or else—

But then Sansa's pale, tear-streaked face came from the shadows from the path that he and Phoebe had been trudging their way along, her pale, ashen features suspended between grief and joy.

Seconds pass, his brain taking her in, struggling to comprehend that Sansa wasn't just another figment of his imagination, another phantasm that his lonely mind had created to ease his desolate existence, that she was really _real_ , in front of him.

Tyrion's brain couldn't formulate a thought, at least not one based in any language, and he knew if he didn't touch his wife soon, the atoms of his very being would tear themselves apart.

How the ground was erased between the two of them, Tyrion would never quite be able to recall it, but for a suspended fraction in time, he and Sansa were apart, and then she was running towards him, and the next they were morphed into a single being as she knelt into a crouch to better embrace the man.

The warmth of her warm body met his cold skin, giving her hope just as she had before she'd gone without him. Tyrion felt his eyes fill with tears, the anger at the selfless way she had given up her own life for his, knowing full well that she had put herself at risk while pregnant with his baby, his child, forgotten.

Before he could fathom what was happening, he was hugging the young woman tightly, his tears dripping from his cheeks onto the shoulders of her gown. His arms were encircled around her, making him momentarily forget that they were in the Wolves Wood, that Phoebe was watching the pair embrace, seemingly interested.

He remembered nothing except for the smiling, silently crying face in front of him. One of her hands clasped around his lower back, the other entangled itself in his hair and stroked it. With each soft touch, more tears fall, from both of them.

Tears that neither of them bothered to wipe away. After what had to be several agonizing days apart, not knowing if the other was injured or dead or even worse, the two of them had the chance to make new memories, and wasting time wasn't on his list. The second Tyrion had stepped from the shadows, stealing away Sansa's frigid breath in her lungs and the very heat from her skin.

Suddenly, it felt to the young woman as though her defenses were just paper, a parchment that was being soaked by the rapidly falling briny drops from her eyelids. Before Sansa could even think about drawing in the air her body needed to breathe and function properly, she melted into his form, unusual though it was. She let out a content sigh as she could feel Tyrion's firm torso and the heart that beat within the confines of his chest.

His hands were folded tightly around her back, drawing him closer to her. She felt her body shake, crying for the missed three days of the time that she was not by his side then, crying to release the pent-up tension of three, agonizing brutally long days and nights trapped in that wretched false king's and the Red Witch's uneasy company.

Sansa felt Tyrion pull his head back slightly and wiped her tears away with a slightly calloused finger, even this roughness brought more relief than Sansa thought she was capable of dealing with right at this time.

The man was practically eating her with his light green eyes, running his hand through her hair as if Tyrion could not quite believe Sansa was not some part of an almost forgotten dream, another one of his nightly hallucinations. When he leaned in and kissed her, it was sweet, gentle, and tasted strangely of her own tears, though Sansa did not complain. She wanted to speak. But all she could manage was a croak. "Don't go. Not again, Tyrion. Don't leave…Is…is this another dream? Am I… have I died? I've _died_ , haven't I?"

Her sweet voice was laced with so much disbelief and anguish that Tyrion thought he could hardly bear it.

"No. You're not dead, Sansa. It's me. I'm alive. I'm here. I'm here…"

The two of them stared at each other in an odd way, as if it were a silent argument, and a quick glance up to the left confirmed (thankfully) that Phoebe had sensed the two of them needed a moment alone and had ducked behind a tree.

Sansa made a muted noise at the back of her throat and looked as though she wasn't sure whether to laugh or to cry and opted instead for a pained smile as she looked back towards Tyrion.

Tyrion hesitated as he looked into his wife's light blue eyes, desperately searching hers for any semblance of jealousy within. There were none that he could detect, and he breathed a sigh of relief and nodded.

"Tyrion?" came Sansa's voice again shyly.

She fell silent as the blonde poked her head out from behind a tree, her curiosity getting the better of her, and shyly waved. Sansa, though surprised, was good at hiding her stunning shock, and quickly returned the wave and offered her a smile.

He nodded, exhaling a shaking sigh of relief that there weren't going to be any tensions between the two women, it seemed.

"Yes, Phoebe and Theon came with me to help look for you. There's…something I have to do before I can join you," Tyrion answered immediately, furrowing his brows in a frown as he tried to shove aside thoughts of what he knew had to do.

He did not want to share the details with Sansa, not wanting his wife to worry more than she already had. Their glances battled one another until they both found themselves crying. Tyrion felt his heart sink to the pit of his already churning stomach as it swooped and turned, and he was not at all surprised to see the beginning emotions of antagonizing disappointment in Sansa's light eyes. Sansa was looking at Tyrion through red-rimmed eyes, as though Tyrion had slapped her, her arms folded across her chest.

"You're here," she breathed, her voice breaking.

Tyrion opened his mouth to retort, face flushed red from the cold and exertion at having found his wife at last, when he could not help but notice how one hand was curled around her stomach, and she staggered backward from him slightly in mental and physical pain, and almost instantly, his anger towards Stannis Baratheon, that vicious cunt, at what he'd done to his wife dissipated and was replaced with an overwhelming ache of worry in his chest.

"Wh—what is this?" he stammered, his voice cracking. "Sansa? Are you ill? Is it...is it the baby?"

She did not immediately answer him.

"I—it's nothing," she said softly, though as she spoke to him, her face twisted in a pained grimace and contorted.

"This doesn't look like _'nothing_ ,'" Tyrion growled in agitation, hating that what was supposed to have been a sweet reunion had erupted into an almost argument, though tensions were high on both their sides. "A—are you hurt?" he demanded, almost sounding angry with Sansa, and he flinched, realizing how harsh his tone came off, and he visibly flinched. He pulled back slightly to study her features and give her physical condition a once-over. "What did that bastard, Stannis, do to you, Sansa?"

"I—I'm fine, h—he…didn't do anything to me, Tyrion. I—I promise," she whispered, her voice barely audible as a sudden gust of wind picked up and tousled her wavy hair off her shoulders. But there was a crack and faltering of her voice that gave off the impression there was more to what she had endured than she was letting on, and it sent his temper briefly aflame, though he fought it.

They had bigger problems to address right now. Such as getting out of here in one piece. Though before he could so much as take one step forward, his gaze was drawn to a tree. This tree was different from the others in these dark woods.

Alone and in the middle of a clearing and felt of magic.

He could not understand why he was drawn to it, and he felt Sansa's questioning gaze pierce the back of his skull hotter than any dragon fire could ever flame or a branding iron for cattle, but there seemed to be darkness to this tree emanating from it.

"Tyrion?" came Sansa's voice, still sounding faint, too faint for his liking, and subdued, though her voice sounded muffled, as if underwater, as he strode towards the tree and examined a face, carved into the wood. Intricately carved, crafted in exquisite detail. When he laid a gloved hand upon its smooth bark, the wood stayed strong, which the dwarf thought peculiar.

This tree did not grow brittle and weak with the frigid cold temperatures, nor pale with the frost, ice, and snow of winter.

As Tyrion slowly turned his head to speak, a voice, one he did not recognize, split the air and sounded angered and hard.

"Who are you?" came a woman's voice, soft, but firm. His eyes squinted as he struggled to see, the blinding white of the snow now falling making it difficult for his one good eye that still possessed the gift of sight to see more than two feet in front of him, and his heartstrings lurched as a woman stepped forward.

A priestess stood before them. She wore no crown atop her head, but the dwarf could not mistake her.

Though dressed in simple attire, a simple red dress, and cape, when the woman lowered her hood, he breathed in a sharp breath of frigid air that pained his still bruised lungs. It was that woman Bolton's soldiers claimed to have seen carrying Sansa's lifeless body away.

_The bloody fucking witch_! Tyrion bit the wall of his cheek as he desperately wracked his brain, trying to remember and coming up short, cursing himself for it. The woman with the dark curls almost as black as night, chuckled as if sensing the man's thoughts, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she tucked a stray curl back behind her right ear.

"Melisandre," she answered simply as if reading his mind. The sensation was unfamiliar, and unnerved the dwarf, causing the fine hairs on the back of his neck to stand upright in fear.

Tyrion could only watch as this witch, this wood-queen of the Wolves Wood straightened her posture and hardened her gaze.

Her eyes were a dark green barely a shade away from black, and they moved with a listless disinterest over his misshapen form. She was no spirit that Tyrion recognized. Not a goddess, he could not say exactly what this woman was, save for the simple fact that she had saved his wife's life, and for that, he supposed, he owed her a favor.

When her gaze coldly met the dwarf's, he blanched, unable to repress the chill that journeyed up and down his back, and he knew it not to be from the cold. "This is the Wolves Wood. You trespass in _my_ domain, Tyrion Lannister. What do you want?"

As he wracked his brain struggling to answer this wood-queen, this red witch, this priestess, as she strode forward and closed off the gap of space between where Tyrion stood, an arm held out defensively in front of Sansa, effectively preventing his wife from taking a step forward, and where she now stood, he recognized that look.

The growing look of discontentment in her eyes, and that if he could not think of an appropriate answer that would satiate her curiosity, the three of them were about to be in a spot of trouble.

Very. Big. Trouble.


	51. Sansa

**Sansa**

Sansa bit down on her bottom lip as her look of trepidation hardened somewhat, flitting towards that of Lord Tyrion, and then back towards the Red Witch, whom she thought she would not see again following her escape into the godswoods. At least, that's what she had told herself and what she had _hoped_ for, yes.

She took a cautious half-step forward, nervously wringing her fingers together in front of her flat abdomen, wincing and trying to ignore the dull ache and pain in her womb, though she felt Tyrion relax the moment she laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"If you are to punish anyone for this, you will punish _me_ , but let my lord husband go. The fault is my _own_ , and solely mine," Sansa Stark announced in what she hoped was a calm and collected enough tone as she met the Red Woman's gaze.

Sansa hoped she was putting on enough of a brave face, though the sound of twigs and dead leaves crunching underneath the heavy thudding footfall of a black leather boot that she recognized, as her heart plummeted to the pit of her churning stomach, she craned her neck upward, feeling her muscles seize up and tighten as she half-expected the false king, Stannis Baratheon, to appear behind his red sorceress, though her heart gave an unexpected flutter when she recognized it was only Ser Jaimie, Lord Tyrion's brother, and Brienne of Tarth.

"You are far from your nest, little bird," the Red Woman remarked in a low, husky sounding voice that sent a chill down Sansa's spine. It sounded like something the Hound would have said to her once, and Stark could not help but wonder just how much of the future (or past) this red witch could see for herself.

"I was heading back," Sansa answered by way of retort, inwardly flinching the moment she heard the warbling note and faltering crack in her normally kind, if not mostly shy tones of her voice, though she swallowed down thickly and tried again.

The Red Woman merely quirked her dark eyebrows at Sansa before turning her gaze towards the dwarf, who had assumed a protective stance in front of his much-taller wife, clearly hellbent on not letting anyone, save for those the pair of them trusted, get within fifty yards of the young She-Wolf of Winterfell. She let out a chortle and resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

"You presumed this little _jaunt_ of yours worth the risk."

Sansa's ironclad grip on her husband's shoulder tightened as her eyes narrowed by way of response, and she pursed her lips into a thin line.

"It was," she snapped, unable to keep the note of bitterness from seeping its way unbidden to the surface of her tone as Stark fixed the Red Witch with an unusually stony glare.

The Red Woman's expression remained impassive, though Sansa swore she saw a flicker of rage and something else, something unreadable, flit through the sorceress's green eyes.

She felt two figures nudge from behind her, and Sansa did not even have to peer behind her shoulder to know Ser Jaimie and Ser Brienne now stood behind her, though what she thought they intended to do from that particular vantage point, she knew not, Sansa supposed it did not matter either way.

Despite not wanting to break away eye contact from the Red Woman, perhaps against her better judgment, Sansa looked, having to crane her neck upward and look Lord Tyrion's brother, that golden-haired lion, that Kingslayer, in his eyes.

"Thank you. To both of you," Sansa murmured in a low enough voice, noticing out of the corner of her eye how uncomfortable Brienne of Tarth was suddenly looking at being in such close proximity to Lord Tyrion's brother, and neither did it escape the young redhead's attention how Ser Jaimie Lannister's chiseled jaw hardened, his eyes flashing like that of steel.

Sansa furrowed her brows in a slight frown at the strangeness of her sworn female sellsword and her husband's older brother's behavior towards Ser Brienne, though she had no time to ponder it, as a faint noise coming from behind the witch caused her hearing to perk up at the disturbance.

Her head whiplashed back around just in time to see the falsely-proclaimed king step from behind the shadows and out from behind a particularly large trunk of a deadened pinewood tree, his hands hidden in his long sleeves. He inclined his head slightly as if to make himself taller.

Sansa's chest gave a painful heave as Stannis calmly, slowly, and methodically, made his way to stand alongside his woman.

"Look at me, she-wolf."

Baratheon's voice was quite calm, measured, low, and dangerous. So much so that it made Sansa flinch. She would have almost preferred it if he'd shouted at her. Stannis Baratheon's face was stone, impassive. 

Sansa was quick to decide that she did not like this look upon him, not one bit. She prided herself on her ability to be able to read people, and when she could not, she considered the talent useless.

"I must congratulate you on your impressive escape attempt. It is truly a pity, milady, that you were mostly unsuccessful," came Stannis's voice, it held a hardened edge to it.

The dripping rancor and anger in his voice was unmistakable.

Sansa said nothing, not wanting to goad the false king further in his anger, this worshipper of their god, the Lord of Light, but she was forced to clench her fists slightly and dig her nails into the skin of her palms to stifle back a dozen or so retorts that burned at the tip of her tongue, just begging to be screamed.

Talking back to Stannis Baratheon, considering the nature of his request in exchange for seeing her returned home safely to Tyrion, was not advisable. Apparently, her lack of response displeased the false king, for Stannis lowered his head back to its normal level and merely offered the pair a cold glower.

"How disappointing, Lady Stark," he observed icily, causing Sansa to shiver involuntarily, though she refused to let Stannis see it. "Now, I wonder where that _tongue_ of yours went. You were quite lively yesterday, wouldn't you agree with me, Stark?"

Sansa swallowed hard past the growing lump in her throat, thinking it best to fight back with silence and no emotion at all.

She refused to give in to her temper as she had in times past with King Joffrey and then several more times with Ramsay, nor would she speak unless ordered to do so, and only then by Tyrion.

Though, if she were being perfectly honest with herself, she did not fully trust herself to do either one of those things.

If it were merely her own fate that was at risk, she would have no problem with launching herself at Baratheon and spewing every vile curse word she had ever heard. However, that was not the case. Not anymore. She had Tyrion to consider, and the babe currently growing inside her belly, so she stayed silent.

Stannis's expression darkened. "Very well, then." He turned his ice-cold gaze towards Lord Tyrion. Sansa felt him stiffen.

Though Sansa made no move to relinquish her grip on Tyrion's shoulder, and he did not make the first move to step away towards the brand-new problem now staring him down.

Her heart rate accelerated, rage swelling within her as the false king took a few more steps to close off the gap of space between himself and the spot where Sansa and Tyrion stood.

Sansa inwardly groaned the moment she heard Ser Brienne of Tarth remove Oathkeeper from its scabbard that rested idly at her hip. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes at Brienne's sometimes over-eagerness to keep her promise to Lady Catelyn.

"Milady, kindly say the word and I would gladly remove this man's _tongue_ for his insolence," Brienne spat, no warmth in her voice. Sansa could briefly hear Ser Jaimie fumbling for his own sword, though considering his sword hand had been hacked off and now in its place a heavy golden monstrosity, Sansa didn't blame the golden-haired man for experiencing difficulties in this task. Sansa let out a sigh and addressed Brienne without looking at her.

"Sheath your sword, Ser Brienne. That won't be necessary."

She could feel Lord Tyrion give a start at her words, and Sansa found herself looking down to meet her husband's questioning stare, as the dwarf was regarding her with a somewhat melancholic look in his bright pale green orbs.

It was as if the man sensed why King Stannis had come and was merely waiting for Sansa to confirm his suspicion aloud.

"Milady?" The confusion was evident in Brienne's tone, as was a certain amount of disbelief, and if Sansa wasn't mistaken, anger. She knew Ser Brienne of Tarth harbored a sworn grudge against King Stannis Baratheon, claiming a shadow in the shape of Stannis had murdered her former king, Renly Baratheon.

Sansa herself was not sure how much stock she held in the belief that Brienne's claims were true, but yet, considering how this Red Woman now standing less than fifty feet from her, had brought her back after essentially being dead for the gods only knew how long, she supposed there might be truth to the claim.

Nevertheless, Sansa had provided the false king with her word. She had made the man a promise and had given her _word_. But though she knew she needed to announce to everyone within the vicinity, and the rest of Winterfell for that matter when they made it back to the castle, that the North was her home no longer, she found that she was unsure how to say it.

Her mouth remained in a rigid, unmovable line as she refused to be the one to avert her gaze from Stannis Baratheon first. Sansa could not help the familiar fire-seed of anger welling deep within the pit of her churning stomach that caused bile to rise up into her throat and settle upon her tongue as her mind became preoccupied with the thought of leaving Winterfell.

Defiant anger coursed through her boiling bloodstream as her feet began to move of their own accord toward Stannis.

Stannis's eyebrows shot so far up onto his lined forehead that they almost disappeared into his dark hairline. Whatever he had expected of the last remaining She-Wolf of Winterfell, this was not admittedly it, and the gesture had caught him off his guard.

She sincerely hoped her face gave away no sign of what she was thinking or feeling, that her piercing eyes of blue did not betray the emotions raging war within the confines of her chest.

Sansa swallowed hard, trying to ignore the burning feeling at the base of her skull as her little lord husband's piercing, questioning gaze was hotter than any branding iron for cattle.

But before she lost her strength and the last of her resolve, she stepped forward until she stood directly in Stannis' path, not allowing herself to glance back over her shoulder at Tyrion.

"Winterfell is under King Stannis's control now. I have relinquished control of Winterfell in my own name in exchange for…for healing me," she began, well aware her words sounded awkward, even as she spoke them, "and for returning me home to you, milord Tyrion," Sansa murmured, suddenly not able to meet the dwarf's gaze, not wanting to see the disappointment that was sure to linger in the Imp's pale green eyes, swallowing thickly down past the bile creeping up her throat. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, praying she'd not get sick.

She could not afford to lose her resolve. Not right now…

There was a heavy, stunned silence. Stannis, she could tell, did not seem wholly satisfied with Sansa Stark's proclamation.

Blood pulsed throughout her veins as her heart pounded erratically in her chest. She closed her eyes, needing a moment.

"What of Lord Bolton, Your Grace? What is to become of Ramsay Snow's father? Will he be… _dealt_ with, my king, now that Winterfell is yours by right by nature of our arrangement?" Sansa questioned, trying, and feeling like she was failing to ignore the murmurings of Sers Jaimie and Brienne behind her, and hearing Tyrion's muffled noise of surprise and utter disgust.

King Stannis Baratheon merely fixed Sansa Stark with a cold stare devoid of warmth, a mask of perfect impassive, neutral.

"I will talk to him." His voice was clipped and hardened.

Sansa silently bristled, grinding her teeth in annoyance. Winterfell's new ruler was not a man of many words, she had quickly learned during the few interactions she had with him.

Somehow, his words did not quite convince her, and she said as much to the false king. "And…talking with him will be enough?" she challenged, quirking a thin brow towards Stannis and the witch.

"Yes." Just a one-word response, but it was more than enough.

Sansa stifled her urge to stomp her foot in frustration, huffing in annoyance and folding her arms across her chest. It seemed it was all she was going to get out of this false king, for now.

"Very well," she reluctantly sighed, feeling her shoulders slump in defeat. "My lord husband and I will return to Casterly Rock at first light, we can give you our word, Your Grace, I swear this," Sansa announced, blinking back salty, briny tears.

A flicker of something unreadable darted through Stannis's eyes, and for a moment, Sansa Stark swore he looked…amused.

"And what _good_ , pray tell me, Lady Stark, would your absence serve me and the good of Winterfell in my own absence?" King Stannis challenged the young redhead angrily.

Sansa blinked owlishly at this false king, her heart pumping too much blood adrenaline into her veins, it rooted her almost frozen.

"Wh—what?" she breathed, hardly daring to believe his words. "But I thought—" Sansa started to say, but he cut her off.

"Then you thought _wrong_ , little dove," Stannis crooned in a tender voice that almost made Lord Tyrion bristle, for Sansa witnessed out of the corner of her peripherals the Imp reach for his dagger in his hilt at his side, though what he planned to do with that, even Sansa could not begin to fathom. Stab his ankle?

Stannis continued before either Sansa or Tyrion could interject. "I aim to ride for King's Landing on the morrow. It surely shan't take me but a few weeks to lay claim to the Iron Throne, but Winterfell needs looking after during my absence."

Here, the false king turned his steely gaze towards Lord Tyrion. A muscle in the dwarf's jaw tightened, though the man said nothing, wanting to gauge Baratheon's reaction first of all.

Lord Tyrion's face hardened like the finest of wrought iron, though he looked towards his wife for confirmation, who nodded. He let out a haggard sounding sigh and pinched at the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger before speaking. "Your will then shall be done…my _king_ ," he spat.

Stannis, seemingly satisfied by the Imp's answer, merely inclined his head by way of response.

"So be it, then," the false king answered dryly in a tone that suggested he'd gone tired of the turn their conversation had taken. He cast a wary glance towards Sansa, a devious smile spreading over the man's thin, pink lips as he looked at her, his surprisingly white teeth gleaming in the diminished light as night fell upon the North and the temperature dropped.

Sansa tore her gaze away as she felt Lord Tyrion offer her his hand. She took it, feeling somewhat timid, perhaps for the first time in a long time within the dwarf's presence, not knowing what her lord husband's response to her decision was, for his face still remained a mask of perfect neutrality as Stannis looked at the dwarf, a twisted smirk forming on handsome features that Sansa supposed back when she was a foolish girl with foolish dreams, would have sent her knees weak and heart racing in her chest. But no longer. All that she had was here.

"You look like death, Lady Stark. Might I suggest seeing the maester upon your return home?" Stannis Baratheon called out over his shoulder as he began to trudge through the snow-covered path of the godswoods that led to Winterfell's estate.

Sansa felt her cracked heart break, turning to watch the false king's back walk away from her and quite literally stalk his path forward towards Winterfell, towards his new home, _his_ castle.

She heard Lord Tyrion's voice rent the otherwise silent air, upon hearing Ser Jaimie and Ser Brienne follow in his stead.

"I'm more than capable of seeing to my wife's own needs, Your Grace," Tyrion practically yelled in order to make himself heard through the gust of frigid winter wind that whipped the air, blowing his bangs off his forehead and Sansa's auburn hair off her shoulders. Sansa heard the dwarf huff in frustration.

"Mind your tongue, Imp," came King Stannis's deep baritone, speaking to the dwarf in what Sansa Stark could only describe was a low, almost menacing growl. "What I gave you, I can just as easily take away." Hearing Lord Tyrion splutter and stammer to think of a retort, showcasing his confusion, he snorted and glanced back over his right shoulder to look the Imp in the eyes. "You seem surprised, Lord Tyrion. Why is that? I _did_ just make you the Warden of the North. It is a position most men would kill for, and you are _half_ a man and not even whole. See to it your wife no longer suffers from whatever ails her stomach pains and see to the castle's well-being in my absence until my return. That's all I ask of you."

Sansa felt her chest constrict and tighten as Stannis, without so much as another word or glance back over at the pair of them, left the dwarf and disgraced daughter of traitor Ned Stark behind.

Lord Tyrion scowled and merely grunted wordlessly, scrunching what was left of his nose and pulling a face at King Stannis Baratheon's backside as the man left them. Tyrion let out a tired-sounding sigh and motioned for Sansa to follow him, she followed behind her lord husband obediently, for a wife always obeyed the commands of her husband.

Well. Most of the time, Sansa thought, as she'd learned the hard way. She let out a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold as his hand glided tenderly up her thigh, resting on her waist.

"What is it?" Tyrion asked, his voice laced with concern.

"Make the pain stop," Sansa whispered in a hoarse, ragged voice as she knelt at her husband's level to look him in the eyes.

"How?" he breathed, whispering his words in the shell of her ear.

It seemed to take Sansa Stark an eternity to find her voice, and when she did, Tyrion had to lean forward to better hear her. Her voice shook with rage, though he wasn't sure if it was outrage at Stannis Baratheon's somewhat pretentious behavior or the fact that she had forsaken rights to rule Winterfell in her own name or a combination of all of those.

Sansa's sweet, shy voice was so faint as it shook, trembling, black poison seeming to drip from her words, Tyrion at first wasn't sure it was his Sansa speaking at all, for her voice was much too flat and emotionless, numb, devoid of all feelings.

"Love me. Haunt me. And…hurt me."

* * *

**Well. That could have gone a thousand times worse, I suppose. Next chapter is purely Sanrion smut and things pick up with the whole Stannis/Roose bit.**


	52. Tyrion

** Tyrion **

Tyrion did not speak much to his wife as he took her by the hand and led her back towards the relative warmth and safety of their own personal quarters within the stone walls of Winterfell.

Her poor feet were surely beginning to blister from all the walking and her teeth chattered noisily, despite Sansa’s best efforts to contain herself from doing it in his presence. His eyes raked down her tiny frame and landed on the girl’s reddened feet the moment she unlaced her boots and moved to stand in front of the fireplace, kneeling on the bear pelt skin rug, the chattering of her teeth becoming less and less the longer she knelt in front of the fireplace, de-thawing from the frigid winds of winter.

A truly kind smile spread over his lips as he looked towards Sansa, his white teeth gleaming in the diminished light.

What a beautiful sight his wife was. The last She-Wolf of Winterfell. Her red locks cascading down her pointy, slender shoulders, though the misery was clearly written all over her young face. The moment Sansa Stark caught her husband looking, she shot him a smile that rendered him breathless, even after all this time. “I’m still cold,” she whispered innocently enough that stoked the fiery heat between Tyrion’s legs in a way that it never had before. Whether it was the joy at having his wife returned to him and the news that for now, at least, their baby was relatively safe and unharmed, though the first thing he planned to have her do after…this, was visit Maester Qyburn or Wolkan to ensure the future of his heir remained strong, he did not know, but he knew he was greatly relieved she was alive.

Tyrion did not immediately speak to Sansa, closing off the gap of space between where he stood near a small side table, having been about to pour himself a goblet of Dornish wine to tamper down his nerves when the overwhelming ache between his legs that stiffened his breeches started to cause physical hurt upon hearing the sweet sensations of his lovely wife’s soft voice.

“Then let me take care of that for you,” he said, letting out a low growl and he heard Sansa gasp as his mouth came down on hers. She felt her cheeks start to burn as the intensity of his kiss deepened, and her hands moved of their own accord to remove the dwarf’s tunic, and the light linen shirt he wore underneath.

She wished the dim candlelight in her room were stronger so she could make out the details of his face, to see what expression Tyrion wore. Was he relieved to have her back, was he angry with her for straying to the rooftop alone without protection?

Sansa reached out a hand to touch at his chest, her hand moved even lower still of its own accord, down the middle of Tyrion’s body, though she gasped when Tyrion grabbed her wrist and moved her hand lower still, pressing it against his throbbing manhood. “Hold it,” he muttered, almost in a low growl that Sansa could only describe as well, wolfish, in a way.

Sansa saw no other choice but to obey, wrapping her fingers around his manhood through his breeches, not sure where this sudden aggressive attitude of his was coming from. She would have expected this sort of behavior from perhaps Ramsay, or maybe even once, Theon, before the man was much changed.

But not her little lord husband, so to see Tyrion in this manner was… very, very _new_ , and it was a shift in his countenance, otherwise so calm and collected, that Sansa decided that she liked, that she could elicit this response from him, to make him tremble with just a delicate stroke or two.

“You torture me, Sansa. I hope you know that,” he growled in a low husky voice that was heavy with desire for his wife, and this response from Tyrion only caused Sansa’s grip to tighten around him for a moment or two longer before she let him go.

She reached her arms behind her back and managed to untie the laces that held her gown together, thinking it was always easier to untie her dresses than it was to put them on and tie it.

Sansa slid her dress off her shoulders, flinching as the ivory skin, but now was more purple and bruised than pale and perfect, was exposed, and she could tell by the hitched breath her husband drew in that Tyrion had seen Sansa’s wounds, scars, the Red Woman had claimed, from the aftermath of her falling.

They would scar, there was no way around that, but the fact that she was alive ought to count for something, Sansa rationalized, and did not allow her resolve to falter as she continued to shrug out of her dress, as gingerly as possible.

Sansa let her gown fall to a crumpled heap at the foot of her bed, stepping over it and hovered over Tyrion, his hand coming up straight to cup her breast. His other arm wrapped around her waist and his hand slipped between her thighs, feeling the moistness that had started to gather there upon their reunion.

The heat at the apex of her thighs stole away Tyrion’s breath.

“You are all right?” Sansa asked, her words hushed, faint, and barely above a whisper. He nodded mutely by way of response, not trusting himself at all to open his mouth and speak coherently, thinking himself too driven by his lust at this point.

The most he could manage to convey was a low, guttural groan as Sansa smiled at him from forcing him onto his back onto the bearskin pelt rug in front of the fire, not needing a blanket for warmth. She trailed her fingers down his chest and to his taut stomach. Tyrion exhaled a shaking breath, letting his eyes close and relishing in Stark’s almost featherlight touches.

This was…unlike anything he had ever experienced for himself, even with Shae. His breath hitched as she wrapped her legs around his body, and all thoughts of his former lover were forgotten, and the only thing he could think of, was his wife.

The moment Tyrion snapped open his eyes, Sansa was still smiling at him, her eyes clouded and darkened, almost cerulean in color, with lust for him. “Don’t be shy, Tyrion,” she murmured, leaning down, a tumble of hair falling in front of her face. She placed a foot on the floor and forced her hips up. “I am yours, and you are mine, remember?” she whispered, unaware that she was echoing a sentiment he had once shared with Shae.

His fingertips ghosted over her hardened nipples, almost tinged purple with cold, or was that from essentially coming back from the brink of death? Tyrion stared, transfixed, continuing to play between her legs. She moaned and wound her arms around Tyrion’s neck, arching her neck forward to kiss him, causing Tyrion to respond in kind by pushing his hips up, grinding his erection near her entrance, slipping a finger inside.

“Say no, Sansa,” he urged, and the use of her name upon his lips brought her out of her clouded haze for just a split second. “Tell me to stop right now, and I will. That you don’t want it.”

“Mmm, don’t stop now. I—I want it. I want you. _Just_ _you_ ,” she whispered back. His lips were pressed fervently against hers, and Sansa felt herself being engulfed in an embrace. “I am yours…”

His. His Sansa, who was as devoted to Tyrion as she was unfailingly kind, even to those cunts like Ramsay Snow who hadn’t deserved Sansa’s kindness or mercy. His Sansa, his lovely wife, who was waiting for him to take what she was offering him, and desperate to accept what he had hoped to give her.

Tyrion relented, despite his mind screaming at him that his wife was ill, that she needed tending to, to let that shifty little cunt Qyburn examine her for signs of mistreatment towards the babe growing inside of her belly, but lust clouded his mind, and he shoved aside all thoughts of what was appropriate away.

The only thing that mattered was Sansa. Tyrion let himself kiss her, sliding his hand up and cupping her breast, squeezing it. She moaned against his lips, her hips bucking in response, eliciting a muffled little groan from the back of Tyrion’s throat.

Sansa moved against him as Tyrion deepened the kiss, his hand coming up to rest against the back of her red tresses, pressing in softly, relishing in the little gasps and pants she gave off as he took his time with Sansa, drinking in the sight of her.

It had seemed too long since they had last lain together, and the last time he had laid eyes upon her, Sansa had fallen to what he had presumed to be her death. He wanted nothing more than to memorize the sweetness of her kiss, to feel her lips in sync with his, her neck, the swell of her small, quite perfect breasts.

Although he loved teasing her as his name cried from her lips, raising in pitch as he rocked his hips, pushing against her entrance but ever mindful not to go any further, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could endure this delicious, slow torture.

The moment he pulled back slightly to study Sansa’s flushed face, her cheeks rosy pink that he knew had nothing to do with the heat emanating from the fire, sending its warmth out into their quarters, he knew that it was time, though the slight awkwardness of her strange little half-smile didn’t escape him.

Sansa was nervous around him, though whether that was because of her wounds or the babe in her belly, he didn’t know.

Either way, she was scared. Tyrion furrowed his brows in a frown. “Will you be okay? It’s all right to say no, my love…we—we don’t have to, I can—I can take you to see Maester Qyburn.”

Sansa quickly nodded her head. “I will be fine. If I’m not, I will say so, and we will stop. Now please…” She smiled, her grin widening. “Stop talking and love me before I change my mind.”

Tyrion merely grunted wordlessly in response, reassured as he shifted his weight and struggled to position himself appropriately, swallowing hard as his throat constricted a bit.

He inched forward, gradual, and slow, hoping with all his might that he was not exacerbating Sansa’s injures with this.

The little gasp of pleasure that emitted from her throat was worth it as he entered inside her, gradually picking up speed, and he’d slid inside her with almost no resistance, as though she were made for him, her body molded to his almost so perfectly.

Her eyes were still glassy and bloodshot, little circles under her brilliant azure orbs, cracked and red-rimmed at the irises though they were, as her gasps and moans timed to his thrusts.

Tyrion was about to continue in his efforts to please his Sansa when he felt Sansa’s slender, delicate fingers move to his chest, her fingertips trailing down his chest in a slow, methodical method that made him shiver out of sheer pleasure.

The way that Sansa Stark was looking at him now as he worked inside of her, the way her eyes lighted up with an affectionate look that almost resembled love, was enough.

He gripped onto her thighs, harder than he had intended, but it couldn’t be helped, even at the little audible gasp of pain she let out as his fingernails gripped onto the bruised, sensitive skin of her shoulders, near her collarbones. Sansa had asked him to hurt her, and to love her, was this not doing what she wanted?

Well. Whatever she wanted, it was enough to send his mind insane. “No, d—don’t stop,” Sansa panted in a pleading mewl.

He tried to do as Sansa asked, though it was becoming increasingly difficult as he loosened his grip on her shoulders, still, his fingers trembled, thinking that he was hurting them. After all, he had the babe within her belly to think of, too. But before he could open his mouth to retort, Sansa shifted her weight, caressing the back of his head, kissing him passionately.

She moved against him in a frantic, urging manner, a whimper steadily building in her throat, escaping her lips.

Tyrion’s grip tightened onto Sansa, not willing to relinquish his ironclad grip on his wife, for fear she would disappear again.

One hand was buried against her red tresses, pressing in softly, the other pressed gently as he could against her back, though he flinched and made a noise as he felt the bruises.

Hearing his wife’s moans, growing more desperate as the seconds flitted by, feeling her move on top of him, was almost too much to bear, and when Sansa’s entire body gave out a shudder, a startled cry of passion and affection leaving her lips, a sense of ecstasy surged through his veins, hotter than Wildfire, and for a moment, white-hot blinding light exploded behind both of his lids as he poured his seed into her. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before Tyrion regained his sense of control again before he could open his eyes and look around.

Two minutes? Five? It didn’t matter, when he felt ready, he returned to his surroundings and gazed up at Sansa. _His_ Sansa.

He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her to lie on top of him, anchoring her firmly to his body. She would not leave him again. Not if he could help it. He felt her shift against him, a tiny moan leaving her lips. He considered rolling Sansa onto her back and taking her again, though he did not do it.

Tyrion pulled Sansa to lie on top of him, his lips meeting hers with fervor, and for the rest of the night, neither moved from their spot on top of the bear pelt fur rug in front of the fire.

Their clothing lay forgotten and discarded on the floor, the candles burnt so low that the flames snuffed themselves out.

That was probably around the time that Sansa fell asleep, the strain of what her body had undergone over the next few days taking its toll on her, and not to mention her new pregnancy.

He supposed his first order of business was to ensure his wife was well and healthy, and that meant sending her to Qyburn in the morn the moment the sun peaked over the horizon, but that was a problem for the moment. For now, he wasn’t letting go.

Instead, he held Sansa close to his chest while she dreamed, her head nestled in the crook of her shoulder, her red hair splayed out behind her like a fan, her legs entangled with his.

In the darkness, he thought of the experience they’d just shared, never did he think he would find himself here at this moment, with a woman who loved him as deeply as he did her.

What they had just shared had been both amazing and terrible. He felt the warmth of her gentle embrace engulf him, and slowly, his eyelids became heavier and heavier, until they could no longer stay open, and he allowed himself to fall into a deep and dreamless sleep, for the first time in a long time, not aided by the essence of dream wine to help Tyrion to sleep.

When he awoke the next morning, it was with a knife to his throat, and Tyrion’s eyes flung wide open to find himself staring face-to-face with Sansa Stark’s younger sister, the other She-Wolf, Arya Stark. And Arya, he noticed, was looking none too pleased to see her older sister in the arms of the Lannister Imp.


	53. Theon-Arya

** Theon **

While the Imp was dealing with his unexpected security situation in his quarters alongside his wife, Theon was following a certain golden-haired kitchen wench down one of the corridors, not really sure where she was walking, though she seemed lost in a contemplative thought that almost made him laugh, the thought of the prettiest wench in the world, save for those blue eyes of hers, perhaps her best-redeeming feature, thinking as hard as she looked.

Phoebe Snow was knee-deep in conversation with Serr Bronn of the Blackwater, and looking thoroughly bored, though he swore he caught mention of Stannis and Roose Bolton’s names mentioned in passing as he hovered around the corner, waiting until the right moment to make his presence known to her.

He waited with bated breath and gritted teeth for that little shit, that pissant Bronn to leave Phoebe Snow behind, and much to Theon’s chagrin, it seemed to take the dark-haired bastard an eternity, though when he did, there was never a sweeter sound than the receding of the man’s boots, his heavy footfalls as he traipsed his way down the corridor, no doubt in search of a whore to satiate his needs. Theon almost snorted, shaking his head, though he was promptly pulled from his thoughts when Phoebe’s voice, clipped and hardened, rent the silent air around him.

“Are you _following_ me?” Phoebe asked pointedly. Never one for feigned courtesies, at least not around Theon, the wench was always blunt, to the point.

Theon admitted, begrudgingly so, that he could admire that about the maiden fair. He’d had wanted he’d wanted to say prepared in his mind, though his tongue caught in his throat and words left him, his tongue refusing his words’ release as he wracked his brain trying to remember how his bloody words really worked.

Nothing was coming to him, and his situation was even made more awkward as Phoebe’s petite little form shifted, and the blonde wench made his stunned gaze, with those piercing crystalline pale blue irises of hers, shining with suspicion like the finest of sapphires from wherever the wench hailed from, then.

“Yes,” he suddenly blurted out, unsure why he did. He cringed, cursing himself to the seven hells below. He wasn’t usually this awkward, though the wench had that bad habit about her, with Phoebe rendering his otherwise suave mannerisms to utter dust.

She made an odd little sniffing noise that sounded as though she disapproved, he affectionately noticed, Theon’s eyes widening as he realized what the hell he was doing to himself.

“And _why_ follow me, Theon Greyjoy of the Iron Islands?” Theon wracked his brain for something to say, and yet, despite his best efforts to contain his honesty, he found he couldn’t manage to contain it.

“To…protect you,” he blurted out, wincing as her face paled and drained of all colors, though whether it was shock or anger, he couldn’t’ quite say. Probably a combination of the latter, he mused.

The wench blinked owlishly at him, pursing her lips into a thin line, now she really did look as though she didn’t believe him.

“To… _protect_ me,” she parroted, quirking a thin blonde brow his way as Theon cautiously rounded the corner, noticing how he looked to the left and right for any sign of Bolton loyalists left, or any Baratheon soldiers. None that he could see. Fucking hell, _good_.

It quickly became clear to him that Sansa’s handmaiden had been eavesdropping just outside of the noblewoman’s chamber doors. A common occurrence amongst the servants here in Winterfell, but Phoebe, as a rule, preferred not to stick her nose in other peoples’ business.

But this morning, however, when she’d been heading towards the kitchens to prepare a tray in which Lord Tyrion Lannister and Sansa Stark could break their fast, she’d heard voices coming from inside, gradually rising in volume, multiple voices, as it so happened. One voice, in particular, drew her attention because the servant recognized it to belong to Sansa.

She had told herself it was out of concern for her friend, for yes, Sansa Stark was very much a friend to Phoebe at this point, that she had stopped in her efforts to go to the kitchen and locate the source of the noise, though the moment she became aware of Greyjoy following her, she halted in her movements and froze up.

“I see now why m’lords Bolton and Baratheon prattle on that the wenches know _everything_ ,” came Theon’s voice, causing her head to whiplash sharply upwards in the direction of his voice, as she looked across the way at him with a small amount of unease.

In response to her rather guarded expression, Theon Greyjoy smirked, as though enjoying some private joke with himself and had found some hidden amusement in her appearance.

This in turn only made Phoebe crinkle her brow even harder. Of course, Theon Greyjoy, the man formerly known as Reek, was no stranger to Phoebe, not since she’d fallen under the servitude of the Bolton family. She knew who Theon was, but she was perfectly aware that she had not really known the man, not really, nor known what his true nature was, only that Sansa Stark could trust Theon.

Quickly adjusting her posture, Phoebe did her best to seem as nonchalant as possible, for she did not wish to be the butt of some horrible perverse joke. Noticing her change in her stance, Greyjoy mirrored her movements slightly by taking on a more relaxed stance and opting to stare at the blonde in a serene fashion.

She was just being cautious, that was all, Phoebe told herself. She had to be, given her station as Sansa Stark’s handmaid.

“You were _snooping_ ,” Theon began, his hoarse voice sounding strangely sly as he took a few steps forward towards her, his hands folded behind his back that gave the girl cause for alarm.

“I—I wasn’t,” Phoebe immediately retorted, feeling her cheeks flush high with color, contorting her face into an expression of outrage, until she realized, due to Theon’s amused expression, the Iron-borne man was teasing her, toying with her emotions a bit.

The blonde sagged her shoulders in disappointment and shook her head before turning back towards the door to leave him.

“I’m sorry, I tease you too much, Snow,” Theon replied, though Sansa Stark’s friend and confidante didn’t sound sorry at all. “It’s just that you look _becoming_ when you’re angry, as Lord Tyrion said. I merely wanted to see it for myself, milady. That’s all.”

Phoebe’s thin blonde brows shot so far up onto her forehead that they almost disappeared into her hairline. For a man who’d had his cock castrated, Greyjoy wasn’t shy of voicing his opinion.

What was even _worse_ , she decided, was the light pink blush speckling its way along her cheeks, despite attempts to quell it. She couldn’t decide if she ought to be flattered by his compliment or not, though luckily a startled shout coming from behind the closed door of her lady’s chambers effectively pulled Phoebe from her musings and the blush in her cheeks quickly subsided and she gnashed her cheeks in annoyance.

She succeeded in throwing Theon one last little look, not sure what to make of the strange look in the man’s gaze, before turning her attention to the strange scene in front of her and slamming the door behind her, being smart enough not to look back. Phoebe knew that what she wanted, Theon could not give her.

Though despite this fact, it did not stop Theon from shooting a truly withering look behind the closed door as Phoebe slammed it shut, not quite in his face, hard enough to signal her displeasure. He cursed Ramsay Bolton to the seven hells below and even beyond that if such a place existed for the bastard who’d taken his cock. If he hadn’t, Theon could have had Phoebe easily.

A few whispered sweet words, a few promises into her ear would surely lead to a tumble in the hay.

But now, instead of getting a ten-inch boner whenever he laid eyes on the pretty Phoebe Snow, all that was left of him was an awful, funny little _itch_ where his cock used to be that sent his blood aflame in his veins, and he curled his hand into a fist and struck the wall hard enough that his knuckles bled. He was sure he’d just broken his knuckles just now. It didn’t quite quell the desire he felt for the petite little blonde girl though.

Theon furrowed his brows and stalked off down the hallway. One way or another, he’d land Snow.

He was just going to have to get _creative_ …

* * *

** Arya  **

The moment Gendry had led her into the Imp’s quarters after receiving permission from the new acting Warden of the North, Stannis Baratheon, or at least, that was the rumor flying about through Winterfell’s walls, at least, she felt like her prayers had finally been answered, that the gods listened to someone like her.

A horrible unease churned in the pit of her stomach at the horrifying and truly puzzling image of her elder sister seemingly laying in peaceful slumber in the Lannister Imp’s arms, that—that cretinous _whelp_ , that miserable little drunk Demon Monkey!

Before Arya could help herself, she pressed the tip of the blade even further into the column of the dwarf’s throat, preparing to plunge it deep into his throat and stain his pillow with his own blood, not giving a damn if any of it managed to stain her hands.

Though before she could, had it not been for Gendry catching her by the wrist, she would have to succeed in ridding them all of one less Lannister bastard in the world.

She screeched and kicked out at him, the noise-causing her sister and Tyrion both to bolt upright in their beds, with Sansa immediately reaching for a blanket with which to preserve her modesty, though Gendry kept an ironclad grip on her wrist, glaring down at her in rancor.

“You really want to do this with your _sister_ present?” he barked.

“That’s the _Imp_!” she bellowed. “Joffrey’s fucking _uncle_!”

“I _know_ who he is, girl,” Gendry growled in a voice that sounded thoroughly exasperated, his cheeks flaming red as Sansa Stark wound her blanket tightly around herself in an attempt to preserve her modesty, all the while shooting a look of daggers at her younger sister as indignant rage flashed across Sansa’s face.

“ _Arya_!” Sansa shouted in shock, sitting upright while still struggling to keep the blanket wound around her front intact. “Surely you _wouldn’t_! Lord Tyrion is my _husband_. I’m _pregnant_.”

“You’re _shitting_ me.” Arya stared at Sansa as though her elder sister had sprouted devil’s horns out of the top of her head.

Sansa quickly shook her head as she rose from the bed, dressing quickly, seeming to not mind so much as to her present company in the room, mumbling a half-hearted thanks to her handmaiden Phoebe, who was looking flustered and upset about something.

Sansa’s senses were buzzing like a hive of bees, telling her that something was wrong with Phoebe. Considering she felt like the blonde had quickly become a true friend to her over these long months, she made a mental note to ask about Phoebe’s well-being later, but first, she had the matter of her little sister to deal with.

Sansa trailed off as she stared at her sister, now certain that her sister would quite like to murder the both of them at this revelation. With a look of trepidation, Arya slowly but surely lowered her dagger and sheathed it, though the venomous look of hatred seething behind her blazing eyes made no move to leave.

Feeling frustration rise with herself, Arya turned to glare at her old sister as she wound her dressing gown tighter around herself. The younger sister took in the sight of her sister’s baby bump.

“Does he make you happy?” Arya asked, catching everyone in the room off-guard.

She saw the Imp give a visible start at the question she had just posed to Sansa. Even Sansa herself was looking flustered and pink in the cheeks. Gendry was merely looking uncomfortable, as though he’d rather be anywhere else but here, and Sansa’s handmaiden, Phoebe, was looking upset.

Sansa blinked as the words hit her like stones being thrown at the side of a glass windowpane and she staggered back in alarm.

“I…” Her voice trailed off as she looked towards Tyrion, whose face remained professionally impassive, though she could tell that her husband held a hopeful look on his scarred face as he silently and politely awaited his wife’s answer. She knew from the start that their marriage had always been one of convenience, but…

But never in a million years did she think she’d grow to care for the man. To love him as she’d always imagined a wife loved her husband. To sire a child with him, an heir who would wear her husband’s name and one day, become Warden of the North.

“Yes.” It was the only truthful answer Sansa could manage to give to her sister. Arya let out a sigh as Sansa Stark lifted her chin and jutted it out slightly defiantly. “I want to _help_ you, Arya, if you’ll allow me a word in edgewise,” she grumbled under her breath, looking towards the window before glancing back towards her young sister, a thoughtful and pensive expression darting across cobalt blue eyes. Her eyes landed on Arya and Tyrion.

It seemed to take Sansa an eternity to find her voice, and when Arya’s older sister did speak again, her voice was soft. _Hopeful_.

“Perhaps we could start with a little fresh air, sister?”


End file.
